One night while bathing, Rhea Prospero noticed a faint series of crisscrossing lines on her inner wrist. Feeling suspicious, she at first narrowed her eyelids, and then wondered if she were losing her eyesight. What looked like an artist’s crosshatchings did not disappear. On the contrary, with closer inspection, these wavy, squiggly lines seemed even more deeply defined. As she lifted her arm to pluck the fluffy white towel from where it lay on the toilet tank, she shrieked.
There, distinctly—for how could there be a moment’s denial—lay a series of slightly slimy scales. Faintly moist and puffy, they reminded her of the fleshy petals of an artichoke. Creeping across her wrist, they lay in row after row like the filigreed brocade of a Victorian opera glove. As she turned her wrist to the unforgiving light, her mouth opened for a second scream that would not deliver itself. For, in that moment, she saw that this was no minor skin disease, no temporary condition. No, it was not the heartbreak of psoriasis, or even shingles. Her lips trembled, for she knew this was sure to be a condition medical science could not yet even diagnose, much less cure.
