Two of the paper aeroplanes had fallen to the floor. The other pair were crushed together between the window bars, crumpled and stained. I had to flatten them against the concrete floor, using the fingers of my left hand to iron out the creases enough to make out the words. 

Every letter hurt. The physical pain was minimal, numbed by serum to a dull ache in my wrist. But with each jerk of the pen, every splat of ink, I winced. The handwriting was as haphazard as a five-year-old’s and unfamiliar like a stranger’s. 

The mechanical fingers flexed awkwardly against the pen, slipping occasionally. A tear slipped from one eye and I jerked the aeroplane away before it could smudge the ink. I had to be strong. I shouldn’t even be sending these letters. The lieutenant had sacrificed both his legs. I still had two functional hands. More than functional; my new hand was better than any human’s. Stronger, more flexible, repairable. Every metal joint and socket moved smoothly like an extension of my body. But the fluency, the tactile feeling needed to write and draw in my own style, so distinctively Tui, was gone. 

I started to crunch the aeroplane with the skin and bone of my left hand, desperate to feel something respond as it should. I shouldn’t put the aeroplane in the window. I shouldn’t ever send another one. But even with serum flowing thick through my veins, numbing my pain and brain, Tui stayed strong. I watched, locked in my own head, as they stood and placed the aeroplane carefully in the window. They stayed there, waiting, flesh and metal holding it there so the wind couldn’t steal the message, until an unnatural breeze swooped in to tug it over the fence. A shadow appeared in Kali’s window and my heart leaped to my throat, almost freeing me from the serum’s grasp. She vanished as fast as she had appeared, with no chance to even make out a face, and the aeroplane followed her through the bars on her window.