I gritted my teeth. My brain was sending the signal to pinch, but the scarred tendons felt like they were moving through mud. The tweezers snapped shut early, missing the bead.

Frustration boiled over. I wanted to sweep the table clean. I was a neurosurgeon, and I couldn’t pick up a piece of glass.

I closed my eyes. I didn’t think about David, or Barbara’s sneer, or the tenderizer. I put them out of my mind. Instead I pictured the intricate pathways of a child’s brain.

I thought about the families pacing in waiting rooms. I thought about the purpose that had always defined my life.

I opened my eyes and steadied my breathing.

With a slow, deliberate flex of my scarred fingers, I made the muscle obey. The tweezers lowered. They pinched the bead. My hand shook, but I held the grip.