Why was I letting this woman take my picture? Well, it wasn’t as if I had a say in the matter. How was I to convey my unwillingness when I couldn’t move?

The photographer introduced herself to my mother as a journalist from the “Waco Herald,” the town’s only newspaper. She told my mother how sorry she was about my accident, but could she take my picture to alert others to the dangers?

Naturally my mother agreed. My accident had made her a ghost who only nodded her consent.

The woman stood at the end of my hospital bed, her long black lens aimed to kill. I tried to move my hands move my legs, something to tell her to STOP, but they remained encased in their plaster casts. I didn’t want my friends or the kids at school to see me like this.

But I could do nothing. She shifted around, looking for the best angle, and I tried to make some noise from my badly burned throat. They said I would never speak again, but I would try. “No! No!” I tried to communicate telepathically. But it was no use.

“Click!”