Her hands sit on the table before her, neatly clasped. Each finger intertwines with the other like some intricate puzzle, beginning for an answer yet never giving anything up. The wrinkles on each knuckle are faint, the skin firm; the nails at the end of each finger are trimmed and shaped into a triangle. One swipe of those against a neck, and the person could die. Her hands don’t move as she stares back into my eyes, no smile on her lips. The hands betray nothing other than that she takes great care of them. I find myself wanting to hide my own gnarled hands, take them from the table and put them in my pockets. That would be too awkward now, though, and she’s waiting for me to say whether or not I accept her deal.