He reaches for me, and I intertwine our fingers and kiss each letter of “Disquiet” inked across his knuckles, then lean down and get the one on his upper arm of the boy leashed to a cloaked figure that’s captioned with “What’s death to the damned?” And the one on his lower arm that reads “Got?” with an image of a molecule I only recognize as serotonin because I looked it up years back.
