When they arrived at the regional hospital, they powered down as Mike went to meet the transferring nurses. She honored a light flutter of anxiety in her stomach as she thought about landing at Aetheridge Children’s Hospital and walking into the Integrated Health department to surprise Grier. It was probably best to gauge whether Grier would even be available; she didn’t want to surprise her unless it would be awelcomesurprise.
She grabbed her phone to start a slightly sneaky line of questioning—only to realize she had a new message from Grier. Quickly remembering the last one she’d sent, she unlocked her phone with a burst of anticipation. She wasn’t expecting the answer, let alone the novel that explained it.
GRIER—10:55 a.m.
Hands. No other body part offers as much
insight, or as much emotion. They are what
we use to explore ourselves, tentatively as
well as insatiably. They tell a story of
someone’s past, of their scars and their
victories. They have a power to both hurt and
heal. They can entwine with another’s to offer
support, love, and a simple presence. And
they can hold you in place during the sultriest
of power dynamics. In the best of
circumstances, hands can explore, they can
tease, they can soothe, and they can pleasure.
But the knowledge that they’re capable of
harm—of being a moment’s indiscretion
away from inflicting pain— demands a sense
of respect and trust between friends, and even
more so between lovers. Some hands can
address physical pain, working the body to
provide comfort. Some hands are artistic,
providing the world with new beauty in the
form of paint, clay, jewelry, etc. Some are
musical, deftly strumming cords or fingering
keys. Some are rough and calloused, used to
work wood or stone into useful or artistic
pieces. Hands give us information about their
owner—and they search for information in
every interaction they have.
