Erica laughs. She has a broad face, pleasant, almost handsome, and short, dyed-black hair, shaved close on the sides. Holding out both arms, she nods. “Yeah, I’ve got a couple of sleeves here, don’t I?”
Sleeves. Margaret considers this as they turn their attention back to the front of the room, where the young woman — the guild president, Margaret supposes — is now yielding the floor to a man who appears to be in his thirties, maybe even early forties. He’s balding, which makes it difficult for Margaret to pinpoint his age. She wonders if under his jacket he, too, has a sleeve of tattoos. She’s at a loss as to why people do that to themselves, treat their skin as if it were a piece of paper, a canvas. She glances at Erica’s arms. They look like comic books, the kind that Glenn used to rea
