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mouth.
    “ What you gonna’ do?” Kruk puckered to spit.
    Jerry saw the moment unfold. Few times in his life, he gained such clarity. His arms and legs moved as if by rote. Chelsea watched from the bank of the stream. He stepped up and thrust his arm forward, stone and all, and slammed his fist on target, knocking Kruk’s smart-ass expression out of the exchange.
    The punk fell back on his ass—the part of his anatomy that governed most of his thinking. He stared up from the grass, pawing at his face. A trail of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth. “You, you.”
    Jerry wasn’t the goon anymore. He knew that before Kruk’s nose started bleeding, even before Kruk squeezed out dirty tears. Kruk covered his nose and ran, joining his buddies halfway up the trail. Later on, Kruk’s father hardly believed that Jerry had fractured the boy’s nose, but the kids got the message. Don’t mess with Jerry Nearing or anyone who knows him.
    Chelsea retrieved her knapsack from the grass and slung it over her shoulder. Jerry watched her turn toward him. She seemed well past crying, collecting herself in a way he would grow accustomed. Her eyes were ice blue, like the color of the sky before it snowed. Her lustrous skin swept away, disappearing into the yellow fur along her hairline. The metal that twisted around her teeth didn’t belong to this face. It was no big deal.
    “ It’s okay,” she murmured.
    Jerry didn’t reply. He must have been shaking. He looked past her and down the trail at Kruk’s retreat. He felt both scared and proud of the power he’d gained with a single blow.
    She nudged his elbow. “We better get home.”
    They walked for a while in silence. Their feet padded the trail like two young animals. Occasionally their arms touched and pulled back. She mumbled phrases between her wires, and Jerry nodded. She didn’t say much beyond ‘thank you,’ but some contracts are born without even speaking. His job was to shelter Chelsea, and she loved him for it. He was suddenly useful again.
     
     
     
     
     
    “ Open your mouth, please,” Dr. Weinberg said.
    Jerry watched Chelsea recline on an adjustable chair. They sat in a bright office with budding plants and sculptures with motorized waterfalls. It duplicated the waiting room outside and the offices next door. He felt lost inside a mini-mall for plastic surgery.
    “ Tilt your head, please.” Dr. Saul Weinberg had a patchy gray beard and a body best suited for a lab coat. He passed a lighted magnifying glass over Chelsea’s face and furrowed his brow. Haskell Cogdon had recommended Weinberg. Cogdon was making a lot of suggestions, sticking his little fingers into every plan Jerry and Chelsea made.
    “ Can you do anything?” Jerry leaned forward in his seat across the room. Chelsea wanted a different look. He wanted to restore the farmhouse and purchase a new set of pots and pans. She desired the perfect mouth—a chance to erase her flaw once and for all. A month ago, this wasn’t an option, but now they were saddled with options, and Cogdon explored each one, lining their countertops with brochures and prospectuses that supposedly unlocked the secrets of wealth and empire. Chelsea’s face seemed the best place to start conquering the world.
    “ Can you take the …” Jerry began.
    “ Give me a minute please,” Weinberg said.
    Chelsea flinched as the light hit her eyes.
    Weinberg folded back her upper lip with his thumbs. “They did a nice job with the teeth. How long ago was this?”
    “ She was eight during the last operation,” Jerry said.
    Weinberg ignored Jerry.
    “ Haskell Cogdon recommended you,” Jerry said.
    Weinberg returned to his drawing pad. He swept a graphite stick over the paper, scratched his beard, and scribbled some more.
    “ He claimed you were the best,” Jerry said.
    Weinberg acknowledged the remark with only a subtle flick of the chin, but when he held up the sketchpad, Chelsea’s reaction startled him.
    She