Abel shook his head with disgust. Oh man, what a girl! As if he could possibly hope to attain something so exquisite. Once he had…Yes, once he had.

Doc’s girl. She reminded him of his girl. The way she spoke—a soft, soft voice. Then, him forgetting to refasten his leg when she called out to him, falling on his butt. Her going on about phantom-limb pain.

He wanted to scream, Want to make me feel better? Suck my dick! But of course he couldn’t say that to her. She was no whore. All he could do was hold back, tell himself that she didn’t know what she was doing to him, tell himself this was Doc’s girl, so curb it.

Just curb it.

Then Doc walked in, red-faced, pissed as hell for no reason. But that time, Abel was pissed back. And at least that was better than being scum-sucking depressed.

He unclasped his leg, then peeled off the sock around the stump. Reaching in his toolbox, he found a carton of talc and powdered what had once been his left leg. The end of the stump was callused, a glob of white scar tissue that had once been pink with blood and flesh.

Gotta stop thinking about that. Gotta stop stop stop.

He hopped over to the bed, slithered under crisp sheets, and waited. Lillian arrived ten minutes later—done up as best she could on such short notice. She was wearing a long white silk robe, and as usual, didn’t take it off until she was under the covers. Her body felt softer than usually, but it was home to Abel. He smiled at her; Lillian smiled back, afraid, a kid waiting for approval. And Abel knew it was his function to give it to her. He pinched her thighs.

“You’ve been a good girl,” he said. “Been doin’ Janie the Cong’s workout every day?”

“You can tell?” she asked excitedly.

“What do you think?” Abel said. He stroked her, caressed her. Like kneading a balloon partially filled with water, soft, rolling waves of fat. She closed her eyes and moaned under his touch. Began to massage his stump. That was how he knew she was ready.

He closed his eyes and did what he had to do.