“He gives her the money. Then he limps his way to the bathroom, and positions himself on the edge of the tub. He picks up one of the threadbare washcloths, folds it three times—a makeshift gag to keep himself from screaming, he informs her. Can’t have the cops, or the ambulance, arriving too soon.

“A final check of tools. Butcher knife, saw, hammer, all within reach. Should he take another Oxy, now that the moment is here? Except he’s already feeling loopy, and this will require a steady hand. Plus, he’s afraid if he takes too much, not being an experienced user, he’ll vomit them back up again. So the four he’s already taken will have to do.

“He wants the amputation as clean as possible, he informs her. It will make for a better fit for the prosthetic.

“Harmony doesn’t talk. Doesn’t say a word. She’s got a thousand in cash clutched in her fist as the guy uses both hands to lift his right leg, swing it over the edge of the tub, and dump it in the dry ice.

“It hurts. She can tell immediately. His teeth dig into the washcloth, the cords stand out on his neck. She’s sure he’s screaming, though no sound comes out. But he doesn’t pull his leg out. If anything, he plunges it deeper into the tub, all the way up to his twisted tie.

“It felt cool against her cheeks, that’s mostly what she remembers. The ice in the bathtub was smoking, but it felt cool against her cheeks.

“The man thrashes his head, beats it against the walls. At first she thinks this is it, he’s having some kind of fit, game over. But apparently, it’s just his way of riding through the pain, because next thing she knows, he has the butcher knife in his hands.

“He removes the gag, stares at her wild eyed. ‘Hit me. Hit the leg,’ he orders her. ‘Hard!’

“She does, jabbing a patch of exposed shin with her nail.

“‘I don’t feel it!’ He’s excited. ‘Try the hammer next.’

“She picks it up, gives the lower limb an experimental tap. Nothing. Crazy guy is a happy camper. He sticks the washcloth back in his mouth, picks up the knife instead.

“Harmony is less certain about this part. Apparently, she’s not very good with blood. What she knows is that the second he slices into his thigh, there’s blood, skin, and meat. Definitely meat. She starts freaking out, already backing up, but the guy keeps on cutting. Deeper and deeper. It’s like a traffic accident, she tells us. She can’t bear to watch, and yet she can’t look away.

“Except all of a sudden, it’s too much. And not just for her but for him, as well. He drops the knife, groaning, shaking uncontrollably.

“‘I can’t, I can’t. No, oh no.’ It’s like the guy is possessed. He wants to cut himself, but he can’t cut himself, and now he’s pissed off.

“‘Smash the leg, smash the leg,’ he starts yelling at her, while at the same time he attempts to hit nine-one-one on his phone. ‘You can still damage it enough. Come on!’