That shooting star, burning and ricocheting across the Universe, touched down to the Earth—my Earth—and left behind several gifts before its own velocity sent it spinning and howling towards the next nearest planet.
It also left a shard of shrapnel, dark glittering obsidian, in my flesh.
(They say everything has its price.)
My fingers work the edges. I feel the taste of panic rise against my tongue, choke the blood in my veins, twist the breath from my lungs. I don’t know how deep it goes or how to get it out.