I sit across from her hands for the first time. From the orange stain between the two top joints of her middle finger, of course there would be. From the nearly okay nails. Not the expected short neat clip, but some long, interspersed with others, angle-broken with two weeks’ worth of un-straightened growth. From the wrist, with an unevenly shaped centimetre of darkness, erupting on the crumpled paper thin skin.