I smiled up at him and reached out with my good arm to touch his bloodstained face, to say thank you, though no words came out. The pain burned through my skull like a wildfire. The pain was telling me I was alive.
When Grogery was done, he slumped against the side of the table, wiping at his hands, mumbling something I couldn't understand. It wasn't important. All I knew was that my own right arm had been consigned to the morgue and the woman's arm had replaced my own.
Grogery saw to it that I got back to my apartment, although all I have are vague flashbacks to the inside of a cart and a painful rolling sensation. Afterward I spent two feverish weeks in bed, the landlady knocking on the door every day, asking for the rent. I think Grogery visited me to clean and check the wound, but I
