David looked across the asphalt, his eyes meeting mine. I sat in the back with my left arm bound in a sling against my chest. I didn’t smile. I didn’t gloat.

I just looked at him with the detached eyes of a surgeon who had removed a malignancy from a healthy body.

He opened his mouth — to beg, or to curse me. Before he could get a word out, the window rolled back up, sealing him out of my life.

I leaned back against the seat and took a long breath. It was over.

But as the car pulled away toward a rehab clinic, my phone rang. My physical therapist, Dr. Evans. He’d just reviewed my post-op MRI.

“Maya,” he said, heavy with hesitation. “The fasciotomy was successful. But the scarring around the flexor tendons is severe. I need you to prepare yourself.