“You’ll understand one day,” Mother said lamely.

“You’re not going to tell us what it is?” you asked, as incredulous as I was.

“Just make sure your arm is clear before you see him,” your mother said. She got up from her bed and pulled out another dress that was buried deep in the closet. “I think this one would look perfect on you.”

They clammed up after that, revealing nothing about this other way of Reforging, no matter how many questions we asked. Our only solace was that we were each as clueless as the other.

Of course, now we both know what they were talking about. I want Monica to be able to Reforge this way, to know only pleasure, not pain, and so I have the unenviable task our mothers once had. Though I like to think I’m bolder than they were and that I’ll feel comfortable coming right out and saying it. But Monica. Well, she’s . . . she’s going to hate this conversation. I can already see the red in her face. My little tomato.

Chapter 13

From the diary of Monica Tsai, backed up on three servers spanning two continents

September 22, 2018 (2018-09-22T22:34:29.442041)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts. United States of America (42.3721865,71.1117091)

Grandmother is getting worse. The other day she came into my room and looked at me curiously, almost like a child. Her hand wavered as she pointed at me, an overlarge tremble. When her lip began to quiver, too, I stood up from my desk and asked what was wrong.

She stopped pointing at me and shook her head.

“I think I have done something terribly wrong,” she said.

Words you never really want to hear from anyone, least of all from your grandmother. I thought her memory might be playing tricks on her and so I asked what she meant.

“Never mind. I should not be bothering you at work.”

I insisted it was fine and waited. She remained at the door, holding her wrist, running her thumb over what I now know are her scars from Reforging.

“I should not have Reforged your pencil,” she said finally. “They were your private thoughts.”

I shrugged. I had already gotten over it.

“I think you may not have been ready to share them with me. I took the pencil and surfaced everything when you did not know what would happen.”

“It’s fine,” I insisted. “I’m glad you did it.”

She fidgeted and remained at my door.

“All those pencils . . .” she said, more to herself than to me.

“It was only the one pencil.” I tried to sound lighthearted.

She shook her head, vigorously this time. “If you don’t want to learn more about Reforging, I would understand.”