I turned my attention back to my work. Lifting his arm and bending it gently at the elbow, I pulled softly, and as I did the thick muscles in his back shifted in response. I worked my way down his biceps. They weren’t beefy in that artificial way, jacked up on supplements and daily visits to the gym. He was solid under my hands, and I knew it came from hard physical work. Army work.

I used my forearm to apply pressure to the knot under his biceps, where he had a scar that looked like an unfinished M. The pink-tinted skin was puffy and soft. It took everything in me not to run my finger over it again. I tried not to think about the pain he must have felt when it happened, whatever it was that had cut at his body.

The scar was deep, like from the lashing of a serrated knife. It made my heart ache for him. I slid my fingers down his forearm, the part of his body that was the deepest in pigment. He had a soldier’s tan, which was like a farmer’s tan, but worse, because they were in the desert getting baked by the sun. No rain, no fresh air to breathe in. Just smoke and IEDs. Body and mind damage. I couldn’t even imagine what he’d gone through . . . I lifted his hand into mine and pressed my thumb against the base of his palm and held it there. I felt his fingers go slack and moved the pressure along the center of his hand.

Was it only the night before that we sat together, side by side on my childhood bed, with alcohol washing over our thoughts and tongues? I started to think about Mendoza, wondering if he was okay. He hadn’t been gone very long when Kael got the phone call.

“That feels so good,” Kael said to me when I bent his wrists, pressing against the sides, slightly pulling at the same time.

“I just learned it,” I told him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I saw a YouTube video and tried it on myself first. It felt great. Especially for people who use their hands a lot.”

“Wait, you learned it on YouTube?” he asked me, lifting his head a little. I gently pressed my palm against his forehead to lay him back down.

“Yes. It’s helpful.” I was proud of myself for mastering a new technique. The internet was usually a flaming dumpster of you never know what you will get, but welcome to the party!

“You’re such a millennial.”

“So are you.” I positioned his arm back at his side and moved around the table to the other.

“Technically, I think we’re Gen Z.”

“Ew, no one actually says ‘Gen Z’ out loud.” I rolled my eyes back.

“At least tell me you have an actual license and didn’t learn everything on YouTube?”