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My left hand begins to malfunction the day I decide to tell Reggie I love him.
The timing is terrible on multiple levels.
First, the micro: I’m on a tiny propeller boat in the middle of the lake, collecting water samples with a group of human undergraduates.
“Willow.” I’m chastising a student. “This is the 47th time you’ve neglected to properly cap the sample before placing it in the portable centrifuge. The water will —”
I cut myself off midsentence, because the intricate metal bones on the end of my arm have begun to quiver, twitch, and run through the sign language alphabet all on their own.
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