“First…I guess I should say, I’m definitely taking organs from someone who is trying to bypass a list of some kind. My intervention stops the black market from being at its most efficient. But then—in some ways, I’m simply another variable. I’m probably raising the price of the organs by creating additional demand. I actually don’t know if that’s moral or not, and I guess that question is an interesting one to me.” He thought for a second and then continued, ticking off his fingers as he spoke. “It is addictively dangerous. People die every day, but buying black-market organs is complicated. It’s astonishingly remunerative, as art, more than it should be. But—and for me this is the most important thing—the finished work does something to people. It is objectively only an art object—the organs can’t be used again.”

“It’s calculated.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “I mean, nothing is thoughtless. People assume it’s insincere—it’s not. It’s a holy thing, to hold a person’s kidney.”

“I’m not in a position to criticize anyone for insincerity,” I replied. He clearly knew what I was doing. I owned up to it. “I’m remaking work for the biggest show of my career. I’m terrified they’re going to look like—like a bad face-lift. Jacqueline’s been telling everyone that they took two years to make. She sold half of them already. It’s fraud.” It was a relief to say it out loud.

“It’s not fraud,” he corrected me. “It’s your choice. In the end—nobody else gets to tell you who you are. That’s the only thing we get, as artists. You’re the only one who chooses it. The work you’re making now is as real as what you made before.”

“I hope that’s true.”

“You can’t lean on the idea that there’s some magic current animating you,” he said, with a little bit of contempt in his voice. “Choice is what distinguishes us”—he meant fine artists—“from people who make houses out of bottle caps.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“So how many?”

“Seven.”

His eyebrows shot up. “That’s a lot.”

“I know. It was all of them.”

“Does Jacqueline know?”

“No. They need to look exactly as they did.”

“What are they called?”

“Prudence—you saw that one already—then there’s Chastity, Humility, Obedience, Modesty, Temperance, and Purity.”

“Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by incapacity,” he said.

“How do you know that?” I asked, surprised. “You know Blake?”

“I looked it up after I saw the ad for your show.” He winked. “Milot took out that billboard on Tenth.”

“Oh, the billboard.” I sighed, worry trickling down my forehead like sweat. “God, that billboard. How much do billboards cost?”