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The spilled nerve agent induced acute apotemnophilia in ninety-four percent of those exposed. It was nonlethal. It wasn’t supposed to exist.

In Grosse Pointe, a woman helped her daughter remove six fingers with a knife and pliers. A Bloomfield grandfather sawed off his leg. Few died, surprisingly–the agent accelerated the clotting process. The only populations spared were prisoners and mental patients, without access to sharp enough objects.

Loren’s unsurprised when the bill comes across his desk. They’re only twenty percent, in Detroit, but each could yield four healthy transplants.

He leans on his remaining hand, hates himself, and considers it.