The dawn didn't bring light to the small stone room in Chang'ombe; it brought cold, reflective glass. The silver line that had slid beneath the wooden front door was no longer fluid. It had hardened into a solid track of metallic mercury, and the hand of the man lying beside me was already being remade by it.
"Chaulo..." I whispered, the name catching in my throat like a shard of dry bone.
I didn't pull away from his arm. His forearm was still dark and warm where it pressed against my ribs, but his hand the fingers that had cleaned the blood from my thigh just hours ago were stiffening. The index finger had elongated, its flesh turning into a hollow, three inch silver needle with a grooved tip that was rhythmically piercing the cotton bedsheet. E-S-T-H-E-R. The machine wasn't using paper
