One guy, Gilee, was very interested in their little prison reformation movement. He was enthusiastic about their tolerance of tolerable religions and philosophies, and quite happy to take nightwatches. Beside the positivity, he had one quirk: he never took his hands out of his overalls. This raised suspicion since Gilee claimed to have been a masseur before being imprisoned. He’d offer anyone a massage after a hard day, but no one took him up on it. Not until Berren, who having been jailed for politics, was all about comfort.
At least a dozen people watched it through the crack in the door, like a curious totem pole, trying to see what was up with Gilee’s hands. That’s when they found out that he didn’t have hands. The wardens had cut off his fingers, you see, leaving him only with palms. He was eager to do his part, though, and Berren was glowing when he emerged from the makeshift parlor.
“Could have used his thumbs more,” he commented, “but it was great. Felt like tiny feet running laps on my back.”
He just about threw up when he turned and the masseur waved to him, but afterwards Gilee got a lot more business. Word-of-mouth travels farther than vomit-of-mouth. It's a wonder.