I mumble under my breath. The annoyingly cheerful woman with the smiley-face scrubs wraps a big rubber band around my arm, ignoring my question completely. She snaps it into a tie above my elbow and slaps my forearm. The fat of my arm jiggles as she frowns down at what she sees. “That may be a good one there.” She prods at my arm, searching for a place to stick the waiting needle. I try to look sympathetic. I don’t know if I should apologize or what. What am I supposed to say? I’m sorry my veins are all covered up in fat just like the rest of me? “I’ll be right back.” She’s going for help. The first one always goes for help. Everything that is alive and pumping inside of me is somewhere underneath all of this. “The odds of death are one in two hundred. That’s pretty slim,” Rat says. He’s sitting on the end of the hospital bed in the pre-op room. “Thanks,”
