I glance down at my hands. On my right pointer finger, there is the world’s smallest scar—so small it can’t be seen. It can only be discerned in the way it disrupts the looping whorls of my fingerprint, a tiny white notch in a tiny white ridge.
A needle of a scar, a hot knife of a memory.
The smell of fire and leather.
Firm lips on my skin.
The warm crimson of blood.