The Gold-rank healer arrived at seven the night before and spent forty minutes rebuilding me from the inside out, and I want it on the record that magical healing is a scam.
Everybody sells it as a miracle. Nobody mentions that closing four lacerations across your chest feels like somebody knitting your muscle fibers together with fishhooks while whistling. The guy's name was Peterson. Fifties, bald, hands like a bricklayer, personality of a parking meter. He pressed both palms flat over my sternum, told me not to scream, and then handed me eleven separate reasons to scream anyway.
