The next forty minutes were, without exaggeration, the single most confusing experience of my entire life. And I say that as someone who woke up six weeks ago in a fat stranger's body with a milk-based survival system and seventy-two hours to live.
Yumi worked like a woman possessed. She moved between her instruments with the focus of a surgeon mid-operation, grabbing tools off the workbench without looking, her fingers finding them by memory. She pressed them against my skin in sequences that made absolutely no sense to me.
The tuning fork went from sternum to left wrist to the soft patch of skin behind my right ear, and each time she struck it against the beveled edge of her workbench first, angling it at what had to be a precise degree because she corrected herself twice before she was satisfied with the contact point.
