He traces the lines down my arm again. Slowly, carefully. He’s bent over them, studying them, slightly twisting my arm to the side to see all the angles. I don’t look down. I stare outside through the window instead, the sky a soapy blue, fading away as night begins to do her dance. It’s quiet in here. I can hear the clock on the wall and the receptionist’s nails as they tap on the desk. The buzzing of the machine next to us faintly fills the room, while the man in the chair