Evidence

The bones are calcified and stubborn today. They refuse to be whittled.

I pull my femur out through a small incision above the knee. The yellow deposits scarring its length blossom like lichens in the dim light. I marvel at the bone's heft, the way its enamel chips and peels beneath my touch. In books, the bones always gleam, as if the anatomist polished them himself. But here, in my hands, the body is no gem, no painstaking work of art. The body is savage. The femur is a war club, not made for dancing or walking up hills, but for battle.