Chance had probably been turning over similar thoughts. Without a word, though, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny green tin. I felt a spurt of annoyance he’d been that sure of me, but at the same time I appreciated his forethought. His mom had made it for me: honey, aloe, and papaya—she is (or was) a certified homeopathy practitioner.

“Let me have your hand.” Delicate as butterfly kisses, he smoothed salve over my skin where scars crisscrossed until you couldn’t tell where one stopped and others began. The unguent soothed immediately, numbing the worst of the trauma. After all this time, I didn’t let myself consider it might be his touch; he’d always been able to make the top of my head tingle with just a fingertip.

“Thanks.”

I prefer handling textiles, where I feel like the item is afire in my hand but it never actually catches, and I don’t wear new marks afterward. But over the years I’ve been offered a lot of metal: rings burning in concentric circles, bracelets leaving welts, and larger items doing damage that it took a doctor to treat.

Why had I done it for so long?

Clients never did understand why I wouldn’t handle multiple objects the same day, why they had to pay for a second consultation. I have a pretty high threshold for pain, but that’s just beyond me, by and large. On occasion, I’ve pushed myself to two and effectively crippled both hands.

I won’t do that unless it’s dire; the last time it was to try to find an eight-year-old girl yanked out of her own yard. The swing was still moving when her mama missed her. They found her alive because of Chance and me. We did some good, back in the day, and it helps offset what came later.

Once upon a time, he fed me soup and ice cream after we saved the kid. We’d watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s in bed. He had a weakness for Audrey Hepburn, for polished, elegant women, and I never knew what he saw in me. He used to act like he could read my future in my ruined lifeline. I wondered what he saw now, bent over my palm.