I’m sitting on the tail end of an aluminum bench in an elongated jail cell with four other dudes. One wall is made out of vertical steel bars, just as you’d expect from a holding cell. The other three walls are taupe colored cinder blocks. The color taupe, I’ve heard, is supposed to inspire feelings of tranquility and calmness. I give the police station interior decorator an A for the attempt but I’m nowhere near calm. Maybe on the outside, but inside I’m a blender filled with hot coals.

I glance in turn at the other men. They’re a compilation of bruises, tattoos, flesh wounds, and they’re all wearing the same West Ham United soccer jerseys. They look like the Beatles just lost a gang fight at a British football match. I don’t know their names but in my mind they’re Twitchy, Angry, Dour, and Nerves.

Twitchy is talking to Angry saying something about the rest of the alien ships. According to him, the one above Salt Lake was the only one shot down.

“Me mate in DC says the rest just scarpered off the second ours got done in. All three 'undred an' three of 'em.” He’s very animated with his arms and face. His left eye won’t stop twitching, hence the name. And I’m surprised to hear a strong Cockney accent. You just don’t hear that a lot in Utah, or any other accent for that matter.

Angry, sitting next to him, is only half paying attention. His face resembles the backend of a pug and his lips are perpetually locked in a frown.

Nerves jumps into the conversation. “I 'eard a few bits of it got chucked out before it went down, I did.” He’s scratching the crook of his arm absentmindedly, where lines of obvious track marks are on show. He’s got a right strong Cockney accent too. “Reckon some of it landed in Park City or somewhere up the mountains. The other parts are all the way down south.”

I open my hand, close it. If the meds I stole helped, or it went away on its own, I’ve no idea. All I know is that the pain is gone. It’s almost back to normal, save for the weird aesthetic addition to my palm.

“They could feel that crash all the way down in Phoenix, and over in Denver,” says Twitchy. “Like a major earthquake. No one got it as bad as we did though. Well, 'cept for anyone lucky enough to be 'iking the national parks, of course.”

“Death by fallin' alien spacecraft,” says Dour, shaking his head. “What a way to go.”

“Listen, fellas,” says Nerves. “When we get out of 'ere, we’ve gotta get down there ASAP. The crash site, I mean. People, especially those rich tech blokes in Silicon Valley, you know the type, will pay big money, and I mean big, for a chunk of alien tech. Imagine it. I bet there are pieces scattered everywhere for miles.”

“The government’s gonna 'ave it all blocked off and locked down,” says Dour. “No way we get our 'ands on any of that.”

“That ship was bigger than the Hawaiian island of Lanai, mate,” says Nerves. “It's 'uge. No bloody way they can block something like that off completely.” He snorts a laugh. “I don’t think that much caution tape exists.”

“What if there are aliens?” says Twitchy.

“Doubt there’ll be any live ones,” says Dour. “That thing came down 'ard.”

“Hey, wot 'appened there?”

It takes me a moment to register that the question is being directed towards me. Nerves, who’s sitting to my right, motions to the scar on my hand. I clench my fist and fold my arms.

All eyes are suddenly on me.

“I, uh, had an accident,” I say. “It’s a scar.”

“And all this time I thought you were 'olding a ham sandwich,” says Nerves.

“Saw that earlier,” says Angry. “Kind of looks like me granny’s genitals, God rest her soul.”

All of us look at Angry.

“Wot?” he says. “I used to work in a nursin' 'ome.”

Nerves holds up a finger. But instead of providing an oral response, he simply shudders.

“Ewe,” says Twitchy.

“Wot?” says Angry, louder, more defensive now. “You see all sorts of fings when you work in that kind of environment. They just let it all 'ang loose and you’re constantly cleanin' up after 'em. Plus, they’re always breakin' this and that, mind you. I can’t even count 'ow many times I’ve set hip and arm bones back into place. I’ve used more duct-tape workin' in a nursin' 'ome than a first-rate 'andyman.”

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As my fellow cellmates launch into a debate about the merits and horrors of post-acute medical care, my attention pulls towards a sound. No, not a sound. That’s not right. It's more of a feeling. A sensation my mind interprets as a sound simply because it isn’t equipped to receive whatever it actually is. The sensation is predominantly in my chest, but I can also feel it from inside my arms. It’s not painful, but it isn’t pleasant either. Words form in my mind. Rejection. Incomplete. Unacceptable.

“Hope you boys are hungry,” says the on duty guard, slipping a tray through a transfer box mounted to the bars. “Lunch for the wicked consists of beans, peach slurry, and … oh, look at that: more beans.” He shoves another plastic plate on top of the first, with no regard to smooshed food or sticky undersides of tableware.

My hands tingle. Both of them. For some reason I don’t understand, I’m inclined to bring them close together. Call it an instinct I didn’t know I had. The scar undulates and it’s mesmerizing. I squint my eyes at it. Is it changing colors?

I stand up and my breath catches in my throat. And then …

I’m holding a hand.

There’s no flash of light or comical pop, it’s just there. A severed hand.

And I’m holding it.

For a fraction of a second I register that it looks a lot like that beautiful woman’s hand, the nice one from the stadium. I recognize the pink nails. Then propriety takes over and I drop it on the ground with a gasp.

It is her hand.

“Holy …” comes a voice, but from which of my cellmates I have no clue. This comment is followed by a slew of profanities and demands for an explanation.

“What in the name of—”

“Where did that come from?”

I look up at the guard on the other side of the bars. He’s staring wide-eyed at me, the fourth tray of food shaking in his hand.

I raise my hands to try and calm him, but I have no words to ease his sudden shock.

“You've been ‘olding that the whole time, mate?” That voice I recognize as Nerves.

“No I …” I start.

I watch the guard turn tail and run.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing onto the bars. But wait for what? What would I even say if he did wait? The metal bars feel extra cold on my scar, I note. My hand is extra sensitive.

I hear an electronic shift and look up to see a security camera adjusting to focus on me.

I turn back around and lean back against the bars. My eyes go from my hands, to the hand on the ground, to the various expressions on my cellmates’ faces. Pick any number of appropriate facial gestures and you’ll find one there.

I let out a sigh. “Well, uh, this is awkward,” I say. “Does anyone … need a spare hand?”

Twitchy turns and pukes into Angry’s chest.

There’s a bit of a rough scuffle after that, some choice words exchanged, a lot of moving around, a few more episodes of projectile vomit against the walls courtesy of Twitchy, and before I know it they’re all hugging corners of the cell with me standing in the middle, blinking, hands up in defense.

It’s not long after more cops show up to escort the four men away.

“Not you,” says a cop with a baton in my face. “You sit back down.”

I comply with a, “yeah, no problem.”

Ten or so minutes later the cops reappear accompanied by two men in orange and white hazmat suits. A tall redhead rookie cop keeps a pistol trained on me while the hazmats extract the nice lady’s hand. A pang of guilt washes over me as I watch them treat the limb like a lump of plutonium covered in feces. If I could get it back to her and somehow make her whole, I would. She didn’t deserve to lose a part of her like that.

As soon as they have the hand contained in a plastic box and locked into place, they all leave in a hurry with zero regard for me.

I’m alone for what feels like an hour or so, long enough to try every seat not covered in puke. Then, out of nowhere, a familiar face appears on the other side of the bars. A smiling, smug little face of a young man dressed in a dark suit.

Every muscle in my body tenses up.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Jack the head snatcher.”

“Pete,” I say.

“You’ve been busy, it seems. How’s the hand? Not the severed one, I already know all about that.”

I sigh, drop my head, close my eyes. “Look, I’m … I'm really sorry about your partner, okay? I had no—”

“Who Tom?” Pete blows a raspberry at the name. “I don’t care about Tom. The guy was dead weight. I should be thanking you, really.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I don’t.

Pete smiles a mirthless grin. “You’re probably wondering what happens next. Well, let me pick up where Tom left off. You can either come willingly, or I can put you to sleep. Either way, you’re coming with me.”

“Where?” I say.

“You, Jack, are now famous,” he says, with exaggerated emphasis on the last word. “In my world, at least.”

“I’m already Youtube famous, thanks, I’m good.”

“That means,” he says, ignoring my jibe, “a lot of smart people want to meet you.” He pauses, presses his toad-like face closer to the bars. “And, you know, cut you up a bit and study you, probably. I don’t really know what they’re going to do to you to be honest, but I can imagine. Either way, your life’s about to change.” He looks up and around at my cell. “You know, the walls where I’m taking you are the same color, funny enough.” He looks back at me. “I’ve always found taupe soothing, wouldn’t you agree?”