Conner’s prosthetic locomoted him into the kitchen and up to the fridge, which was new and shiny. When she saw him snag the door handle with his two fingers, she heard the quick gnat-whine of a small servo. The prosthetic, she now saw, had its own thumb. He opened the door, fished out a beer, swung the prosthetic’s shoulder enough to nudge the door shut, and clumped back out to Burton. It was like the thing had only the one gait. Then he stuck the bottle cap against what would have been the front of the bicep of his right arm, if he’d had one, and popped it off. She saw he had a rusty old opener glued there, on the black plastic. The cap bounced on the bare vinyl floor, rolled under the sofa. He grinned at her, handed Burton the beer.