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Working Hands Milton, a celebrated cardiothoracic surgeon, loved his hands. He loved them so much he had twenty-seven molds displayed throughout his hospital office, private office and, of course, his home. His favorite appeared to delicately whisk a tissue from its box. He admired his fingers—long, nimble things—and if they could sit still, he probably wouldn’t be in his current predicament: face-to-face with an angry, remarkably beautiful woman accusing him of touching several places on her body she did not appreciate. Milton was captivated. Strong. Unbackdownable. Gorgeous. And her hands were breathtaking. “What is your line of work?” he asked abruptly. She was so taken aback she answered before deciding she didn’t want to. “I am a celebrated concert pianist.” Milton fell instantly in love. Unfortunately, he was in a bit of a pickle. By day, Milton was a surgeon. By night, he clandestined as a finger-smith—for the ignorant among us, a pickpocket. He marveled at the featherlike quickness of his fingers. Watches, phones, wallets—a clean extraction was effortless. Which made his present situation particularly troubling. Twenty minutes earlier, Milton had recognized what appeared to be an unprecedented abundance of opportunity. He approached with the confidence of a man who had performed three bypasses before lunch. His first attempt yielded nothing. He repositioned. Nothing. Another location. Still nothing. This continued far longer than Milton would later admit. After his seventh attempt, the woman spun around. Which brought them here. “So let me understand this. You’ve been putting your hands all over me because you were trying to steal from me?” “Not all over you,” Milton corrected. “There were very specific targets.” Her eyes narrowed. “That isn’t better.” “No,” he conceded. “Hearing it aloud, it is not.” Years of surgical precision. Thousands of successful extractions. A second career built upon the dexterity of his fingers. And somehow, she had stolen from him. His heart. Milton looked at her hands. She looked at his. “Tea?” She considered him. “Scotch. Neat. JJ’s Jazz.” Milton smiled. She pointed at him. “And keep your hands in your own pockets.”