“Could’ve saved time by thinking it away.” West walked to another display. “Drama queen.”

The scissors paused in Paul’s hand. “I know.”

Benton brushed some pre-snap curls from his shoulder. “Containment’s at ninety-eight over. Just a few more.”

He grabbed her hand and removed it from his shoulder. “You’re hyperkinetic.”

“And you don’t like to be touched. Sorry. I forgot.”

Short squeeze of hand-to-hand. “No sorries.”

Healing by primary intention: leaving the wound open to the elements, visible to all. Scab, scar. Public re-placement of flesh, of memory and heart, filling in the places between and

Scissors disappeared. Hair stood on end, clumps, moist, a tangle of muddied fire burned up to nothing in particular.

“Hugh Grant? Michael Madsen?”

“Not quite. Terrible combination of neither.” He felt his cardiac shield twinge.

“Come on, kids. Stop your grab-assin’.” Light traced a new code burn on his temple. “The boss wants a progress report.”

feeling screams, burning ends in that night, and it was beautiful. the touch of self, the touch of alters, galaxies of altars, and trees, trees singing and flying, echoes before dawn, a moon, a gasp, the chill that midnight makes when inhaled, the loss of exhalation, the yearning to breathe that scent again, ever again, to be there ever again

the way things break, the way tomorrows break, the way we struggle to correct yesterdays

and in one she frowned as a nacelle tore from the craft, crew pulled to death between the planet and the star, and in one she fought robots made from wood and organic paste, wiring spun from the silk of system-sized spiders, and in one she had a twin, and in one she watched a planet cut cleanly in half by a light from the stars, and in one she found no enemy left, and in one she sipped a bitter liquid that would keep her awake for hours, and in one she slumped, exhausted from breathing, as a door opened and