Lindsay examined his right arm. The bone had knitted well, but he’d put on so much muscle that the designs were distorted: coax-cable snakes with television eyes, white death’s-heads with flat solar-panel wings, knives wreathed in lightning, and everywhere, fluttering along and between them, a horde of white moths. The skin of his arm from wrist to bicep was so laden with ink that it felt cold to the touch and no longer sweated.