My third hand sprouts when I am only twenty-three. It doesn’t hurt. The skin on my right arm stretches like plastic wrap being pulled around the edges of a bowl, and new bones slowly start to form. Within days I can articulate the fingers on my new hand the same way I do with my others. I can’t wait to show this off.
Walking past the dim, gray cubicles in the sprawling office, I notice people staring at me. Despite their lingering eyes, angling to get a glimpse of someone’s first growth, I see their many limbs working furiously, never allowing themselves to stop.
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