T hey’d had a shower with H. G. Wells and Frank, Garreth’s bandaged leg, tucked through something that looked like an inhumanly capacious and open-ended condom. Toweling him off, she’d seen a bit more of Frank, "Frankenstein." Much evidence of heroic surgery, so-called. As many stitches as a patchwork quilt, and indeed she suspected literally patchwork, the back of his other calf tidily scarred where they’d taken skin to graft. And within Frank, if Garreth wasn’t simply taking the piss, a good bit of newfangled rattan bone. Frank’s musculature was considerably reduced, though Garreth had hopes for that. Hopes generally, she’d been glad to see, and hard sensitive hands sliding all over her.