Zuri retreated to his apartment and his half-carved turtle. A hobby, John had suggested. Sure. Why not? He took a seat and selected the tools, now foreign in his unpracticed hands. His cuts were clumsy. Rather than making him feel better, the work made him feel worse. When the chisel bit into his thumb, he swore and threw it all across the room.

"Fuck this."

Sucking the cut, he stomped over woodchips and out the door. His feet led him to the elevator, and finally to the ...