The skin was red and patterned with the tiny squares of the graft mesh.

I touched the scar on my left wrist.

It felt warm and solid.

I put the gloves back on, pulling the fabric tight over my fingers.

I started the car and turned the heater on high.

The radio came on, playing a quiet instrumental song.

I pulled out of the parking lot and drove back toward the city.

The sky was beginning to darken, the streetlights turning on one by one along the avenue.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder.

It was a text from Sarah.

“The first client is here,” the message read.

“She has her children with her,” she added.

I pressed the hands-free button on the steering wheel.

“Tell her I am on my way,” I said.

I turned the car onto the main street, driving toward the office lights.