Damn. She wasn't kidding when she said she got a lot done. It feels like every time Curtis blinks, another part of the arm materializes.

Tentatively, he reaches to touch the prosthesis, sliding his fingers over the metal plating. That's going to be a part of him soon. Uneasiness flickers again, then vanishes just as fast; it's a tool, she told him, no different than a crutch or an umbrella hook.

(Except for how much goddamn nicer it looks.)

"Right now?" he asks, and immediately thinks, that's a dumb question, of course right now.