Through his father’s betrayal, through the long nights of school and the struggles of raising a son alone, his mother had never cried—at least, not where he could see or hear her. She’d always been steely-eyed, full of the courage of her convictions, a titan astride the world.
As soon as he spoke, her dark eyes filled with tears. “No. You’re not dead. It’s a miracle from God, mijo—un milagro maravilloso.”
And it had been. It wasn’t until weeks later, back in the very room he currently tossed and turned in, that he discovered the extent of the miracle the doctor had wrought.
Sighing in frustration, he rose from his childhood bed and stood in front of the long mirror that filled the back of the closet door. He only looked a little different than he had then—he was over a decade older, but his body hadn’t aged much. Whatever the doctor had dropped in that tube, it had healed every imperfection he’d ever had, including his shattered nose and his countless surgery scars. Ten years of fighting crime hadn’t added any scars to his collection, either. He was still as perfect as the day he stood in front of this very mirror and admired his newly acquired physique.
The change was all in his eyes.