Her hand twitched on the blue carpet, the left flickered between new and old, between plastic and perfection. Other hands rolled her onto her back, the wooden ceiling an amber shroud. She felt her plastic hand as if it were here now—its heavy, dull senses, the smell. She clung to those memories as her mind burned away. She wasn’t a machine; she was human, organic. This pain was mechanical—seized rods and jammed gears—it meant nothing to who she was.