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How to Reset Your Life

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Dian Nafi

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“Sam looked at her outstretched hand, which he knew as well as any hand except his own---the precise pattern of the lines that made up the grid of her palm, the slim fingers with the purplish veins at the knuckles, the particular creamy olive hue of her skin, her delicate wrist, pinkish, with a penumbral callus that must have come from Dov, the white gold bracelet she wore that he knew had been a gift from Freda on her twelfth birthday. How could she honestly think he wouldn't know about the handcuffs? He had spent hours sitting next to her, playing games and then making them, staring at her hands as her fingers flew across a keyboard or jabbed at a controller. Tell me I don't know you, Sam thought. Tell me I don't know you when I could draw both sides of this hand, your hand, from memory.”

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“According to my father’s journal and Laken, Phoebe had arrived two weeks before I did, which made sense for her anxiety levels. Unfortunately, her past had left her skin pretty raw and needing help to recover if we ever wanted her quills to grow back completely. She had a few here and there, but the vast majority remained injured. The irony was not lost on me. This little porcupine princess with a pink bed had enough poison in her body to take down an army. Twenty could be killed with just one quill. Attacking the body’s muscles first, then the heart, it’d be a quick death. All the more reason to keep her from the poachers.”

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