Sim’s thumb floats over the soft skin of my forearm, stretching it tight, then she leans down and deals a quick kiss to the spot. “For luck,” she says. As she raises the needle, I look between her and Jo-hanna. In the company of women like this—sharp-edged as raw diamonds but with soft hands and hearts, not strong in spite of anything but powerful because of everything—I feel invincible. Every chink and rut and battering wind has made us tough and brave and impossible to strike down. We are mountains—or perhaps temples, with foundations that could outlast time itself. When the needle breaks my
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