““I pull out the blue spool of thread and the sharp needle I always keep in the left pocket of my dress--because old seams have a way of popping, thread unspooling, and you never know when you'll need it--and begin stitching my arm back into place. It takes longer than usual; some of the linen has begun to fray along the seam, and I need to gather a few spare dead leaves from the graveyard to fill my shoulder socket all the way. It's a ghastly thing to lose an arm--or any part of yourself, really--to feel disconnected from your body. Not quite whole. And I've always wished Dr. Finkelstein had stuffed my insides with something other than dried, shriveled leaves, tossed aside by the trees. Cotton perhaps, or rose petals. Something silken and ladylike.””
