I touched his cheek. I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair. And I permitted him to see, for this second when he was aware of nothing, just how much this fleeting moment of contact meant to someone like me.

A woman who controlled all, having spent her entire life being told it would be physically dangerous to trust in what she could feel. A child, still trying to unravel the mystery of pain and still absolutely, positively terrified of sounds in the dark.

Afterward, he collapsed. I reached over, snapped off the light.

“I have an early morning flight,” I said, the only words that needed to be spoken.

Reassured, he dozed off while I lay next to him, stroking the muscular outline of his upper arm, concentrating on the ripples of his shoulders and triceps, as if mapping the planes of his body with my fingertips.

I counted off the minutes in my mind. After five had passed and his breathing dropped to a slower, heavier tone, dulled by whiskey, sated by sex, I made my move.

First order of business, snapping on the bathroom light. I grabbed my purse, then moved into the lit space, closing the door behind me. Not thinking anymore. What I was going to do next defied rational thought or well-adjusted reasoning.

What had I tried to explain to my new patient, Detective Warren, earlier in the day? Without balance, difference pieces of Self sought dominance. Meaning even the strongest Manager mind couldn’t run the ship 24/7. Sooner or later, the weak, hurting Exiles were bound to break out and wreak havoc for the Firefighters to handle next.

By engaging in various acts of self-destruction. By creating drama for the sake of drama. By ensuring for at least a brief period of time, the rest of the world felt their pain.

Slim black plastic kit out of my purse. Easing it open. Removing the square packages of lidocaine-soaked wipes. Tearing open the pack, removing the sheet. Holding it in my right hand, while picking up the slender, stainless steel scalpel in my left.

Cracking open the bathroom door. Adjusting until the glowing strip of white light fell across my target’s sleeping form like a thin spotlight. Pausing, then, when he remained snoring lightly, padding naked to his side of the bed.

First, the lidocaine wipe. With light, even strokes, applying the topical anesthetic down the length of the salesman’s left shoulder, slowly but surely numbing the surface of the skin.

Setting down the wipe. Counting carefully to sixty in order to give the lidocaine enough time to do its work.

My fingers, running along the contours of his left shoulder, mapping the muscles once more in my mind.

Then, picking up the scalpel. Positioning the blade. A slight prick to test for physical response.