The hand that had its work cut out for it was cut out for its work. Knuckling down on the desk, it curled to a tool not there, scissors that might replace pen with loop and lever, flexed: machinely precision—potential at rest.

The hand knew its rights, always ready to bite the dogs that fed it—stitched through with blue machismo, a need to fill emptiness. Peckish, it chiseled away at heavy matter, five limbs closed in, a flying wedge that broke down all resistance.

The hand had unhappy memories of mechanical disadvantage—times when friction with its partner kept it from its work. Saw wisdom in ignorance—increasing the distance between them allowed it to lessen the force with no discernible decrease in output energy. Pulled along the daily drill, the hand drank and dug, screwed down others’ thumbs to bring new pieces up. Inclined to let matters drop, it drove the wedge deeper.

The hand learned to raise and lower expectations, forget the feeling it was always about to leap. It learned to keep secrets, accept second-class status in the world of information, embrace its dangerous calling. It tried to be self-propelled, to stay in circulation, but its calculations were off—its shuffle step tuned the dial, but after a while no music came. No soft response would be pried up.

The hand was not whole; turnabout and torque had weakened its connection to the work. The hand neglected cardinal rules, had lost its match—it had been left—more and more force necessary to achieve the same effects. But the hand was not depressed. It had simply forgotten the metal sheen that drew it to screw itself up in the first place.