We finally coaxed her to take off the scarflett. Promised her an extra serving of banana pudding. She eagerly untied it. The fabric was so old it fell apart.

But there it was, zigzagging across her wrist. She had tried to take her own life after a romance gone sour.

We asked if it was worth the trouble. She shook her head and smiled. Then she asked us to tie the scarflett back on.

“I don’t even remember who he was,” she said, “but the scarflett, I’m just used to having it there.”