Malcolm. Nervous stomach. PTSD. Apple pie. He remembers that.

His mouth opens, nothing comes out, and he closes it again. There's a question. Questions should be answered. "No. Never do." Drugs don't work on him, anyway. Not unless the doses are huge. Not worth it. Operate without, it doesn't matter, he'll heal. Not allowed to scream or they'll shut up him and he won't like how they do it.

The gears in his left arm make an angry ratcheting sound and his fingers spasm, metal and flesh, against his elbows.