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Jenny leaned against the counter, counting the stitches where Ariana’s arm had been severed, each segment arranged in clinical precision beneath the glass. The overhead lights hummed, sterile and white, reflecting off the muscle striations, the fine marbling of fat. The attendant, masked and impassive, weighed the cost. A rib’s soft curve. A shoulder blade, gleaming. “Is this enough?” she asked, voice catching in the cold air.

Ariana’s skin, rolled tight like butcher’s parchment, was pressed beneath the scalpel, measured by the inch. Each cut—exact, economical. Josh preferred the delicate portions, the leanest tissue, the parts that held the least resistance. He inspected the yield, thumbs tracing the tendon’s taut line, fingers pressing where nerve met bone, the quicksilver exchange of possession.

Outside, his boots clapped against wet pavement, the rhythm steady, expectant. Jenny imagined his hands pawing through the parcel, the slow unfurling, the practiced hunger. The body, greater than the sum of its parts, was dissolving into the transaction.

The register chimed. A cat licked the wrapping paper. Steam rose from an open vent, curling into the streetlamp glow.

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