When you first started losing your hair, you were honestly not as bummed out as you thought you would be. You got Joel to just shave it all off in the kitchen one night — a decision that was tough for him, but also not his to make — and soon you grew used to the look of a barren head. Everyone in Jackson said you looked badass. Joel agreed.

The treatments were slow in effect. But Jackson had some of the smartest and most talented medical professionals that survived the outbreak, so you were already in good hands. A modern alternative to chemotherapy is what they used. More gentle on the body, yet still could not prevent hair loss.

When you went into remission, the entire town held a celebration. Joel, especially, was elated. You hadn’t seen the many tearful moments he’d had with his brother Tommy — the uncertainty, the fear, the preemptive grief. In Joel’s mind, he’d already lost you, which was a far cry from how he’d typically react to such dire situations.

When the stubble appeared on the top of your head, you were quick to grab Joel’s hand and make him feel it. He laughed in astonishment right along with you. Then the stubble turned into fuzz, and after a long period of awkward-looking hair regrowth, you’d finally reached a good, maintainable length. You swore to yourself you’d never cut it again.

Joel sits on the couch in the living room, a brush in his hand. You sit on the floor in front of him. He is gentle, as if he’s scared he’ll pull the hairs right out of your head. But the strands are thick and healthy. A salvaged television (complete with a DVD player) keeps your attention.

“Your hair’s gotten so long…” Joel muses to himself, feeling your soft hair between his fingers as he brushes it out.