Thorne stared at the knife. It was a multi-tool, the blade small and blunt.
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Amputation is not an end so much as a rerouting. The surgeons did what surgeons do: cleaned the damage, smoothed the stump, set drains, and sewed the skin into a neat false horizon. They took tissue samples and warned him—wisely and without melodrama—about the risk of phantom pain and the slow, necessary work of physical therapy. Recovery is choreography: pain medication, careful sleeping positions, the slow reintroduction of strength. He would learn to dress himself differently, to adapt the tiny rituals of daily life: tying shoes, brushing teeth, opening jars. The prosthetics world invited him with both commercialized promises and practical grace; engineers and occupational therapists measured his residual limb and suggested devices that might one day be part of him. Thorne stared at the knife