I wanted hands. Good hands. Useful hands.
“Thank you.”
Ten metal fingers. Shoulders, elbows, wrists.
“What do I owe you?”
“Follow me.”
I did what he asked. Built things. He took them to a room I wasn’t to enter.
Curiosity grew. He was out. I looked. He came in, saw me. Broke my hands. Threw me out. Bleeding, broken, alone.
I was nothing.
Someone came. Extended their hand.
“I can’t help you,” I said.
They shook their head, smiled. Held me. I did not want it. I struggled.
“Let me help you.” Their eyes held me still.
“Okay.”
