The surgeon began with a bent keg tag and Nessa's eyes shut.
He pressed its rounded corner against her index fingertip. She named the finger. The middle answered next. On the ring finger, she felt the metal at the base and guessed wrong twice above the second knuckle.
The smallest finger gave her nothing.
Somewhere overhead, beer struck the inside of a brewery tank whenever the street moved. Nessa used each slosh to keep track of the west wall. Three close together meant rifle fire. One long roll meant something heavy had leaned against the building again.
The keg tag touched her palm below the curled fingers.
"That point sits under my smallest knuckle, near the wrist."
The surgeon opened her eyes with two fingers against her eyelid. He had turned a barrel-loading table into an operating board and covered its old price marks with boiled cloth. "You felt the palm. The dead patch crosses both middle joints and stops one finger-width above the wrist crease."
