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Summary
When he was in fourth grade, Jughead sliced his forearm open on a piece of razor wire jutting out of a fence he’d been trying to climb with Archie. It had taken thirty-two sutures to secure the torn skin back together, and on Monday, every kid in his class had wanted to see the wound. He’d peeled back layers of bandage to show them the stitches threaded through soft tissue, holding the gash closed.
Seven years later, everyone still clamours to see his scars.
Or
Jughead is scared of the dark.