Insular environments breed buzzardlike reactions to the whiff of a comedown and while she hadn’t heard back from Samuelson, she also doesn’t want to be tempted to solicit information. Today, she’s doing intervals of incline push-ups, kettle-bell swing lunges, and two-minute sprints on the rowing machine. Her body is responding, just not as quickly as it used to. Her cardio is lagging, but she’s making progress. She pushes through her last round, panting from the effort. Cheri showers quickly and is getting dressed when she glimpses her naked body in the mirror. She catches herself thinking like a cop, noting her distinguishing marks, the things Michael would use to identify her body at the morgue: the mole above her right breast, her tattoos—cherry bomb on her left shoulder, handgun on her hip, tiger crouching his way up her back toward the ouroboros between her wings. For a long time she was “that girl with the tattoos.” Back up and give her room, people.
