The Drift of Hands [novel, 2016]
The human hand is precise. Even the clumsy swollen hand of the bacon cook as he stripes a black pan with gristle and meat. Watching her, distracted, with learned empathy. Boredom. Her hands were thin from change, worn. Molding bark into bookcases for leathered books, he often understood. But his world stagnated in physical habit and tortured her freedom. The heart is not so precise. He would, when in this deep water, dive.
