My high heels clicked on the marble floor as I entered Riposo, an exclusive Italian eatery in the heart of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Bright sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, whose climbing vines dappled the restaurant’s interior with irregular shadows. I could hear the cheery bounce of Dean Martin’s “Luna Mezzo Mare”, the music faintly audible under the electric buzz of conversation and the clinking of silverware on fine china.

I stopped at the entrance to the main dining room, scanning the crowded restaurant for the group I was there to meet: a trio of old college friends from Wellesley. I’d known them for decades, and had hated them for just as long. I could never say that, of course. That wouldn’t be polite. And if I was anything, I was polite. I was raised in a polite society, after all, that upper crust of Manhattan glitterati that values appearances above all else. The more you hate someone, the harder you smile. My mother taught me that, the flesh on her facelifted cheeks drawn up into a joker’s grin, her white veneers gleaming between her over-lined lips.

“How dare you,” a woman said from behind me, breaking me from my memory. The woman’s tone was acerbic, but the voice was familiar.

I sucked in to flatten my stomach, then turned to see a statuesque brunette in a tight-fitting teal mini-dress scowling at me. It was Poppy—short for Penelope—my freshman-year roommate at Wellesley. We had been acquaintances before college, both of us attending some of the same yawn-inducing social functions to which our parents dragged us, but we didn’t become close until we were assigned to live together. Within weeks, we were sharing clothes, shoes, eating disorders… basically everything.

“How dare you show up here,” Poppy continued, “looking absolutely fucking gorgeous.” She pulled me close for a pair of air kisses, first on one cheek, then the other. She smelled like Les Larmes Sacrées de Thebes, the same six-thousand dollar perfume she had been wearing since her wedding to the investment banker with the questionable relationship with the SEC.

I stepped back to admire Poppy’s frame, noting the slight swelling of her hips and the fine vertical lines above her upper lip. The ghost of a gray hair peeked out from the bangs she had added to hide her creased forehead.

“Poppy! Look at you!” I gushed. “How are you so perfect?”

Poppy examined her finely manicured nails and sighed with faux nonchalance. “Just lucky, I guess.” She smiled and then extended a hand to me. “Come on. We’re in the back.”

Poppy took my hand and led me through the restaurant toward a semi-circular booth where two other women, Lisa and Jennifer, sat sipping pink martinis. Lisa’s short blonde bob framed a round face artificially smoothed with Botox and fillers. God, she looks like crap, I thought. Her eyebrows were too thick, and a thin dusting of peach fuzz was visible on her powdered cheeks. The woman desperately needed a new aesthetician. And a new personal trainer, too, from the looks of it. She must have gained fifteen pounds in the last year.

Jennifer, in contrast, was a natural beauty with long copper hair and fair skin. Unlike Poppy and Lisa, her face was devoid of crow’s feet and laugh lines—or any apparent attempts to medically conceal them. I felt a ball of burning jealousy ignite in my belly. Of course she looked amazing. She always had. She seemed to be impervious to the ravages of time. No hair dye, no injections, no peels. She appeared perfectly filtered, Photoshopped, and FaceTuned, but in real life.

Lisa’s jaw dropped when she saw me approaching. She grabbed Jennifer’s arm dramatically. “Look at this goddess!” she exclaimed in an awed whisper.

Jennifer popped a cube of cheese into her mouth, speaking as she chewed. “There should be a law against looking that good. Seriously. It’s not even fair.”

“You’d be on Death Row if there was,” I replied, sliding into the booth next to Jennifer and air-kissing her cheek. “Hello, lovelies. What are we drinking?”

“Oh my god, you have to try this.” Lisa passed me a martini the color of pink cotton candy. Three olive-sized balls of watermelon speared with a clear glass rod were submerged in the drink. A glistening white crust lined the rim.

I lifted the melon balls out of the glass and sipped the martini. Sugar clung to my lips. I licked it off, then moaned with pleasure. “Mmmmm. So good. What is it?”

“It’s called a Wondermelon Martini,” Lisa gushed.

Poppy slipped into the other side of the booth, next to Lisa. “Giorgio makes them special, just for us.” She wiggled her fingers at the bartender, a handsome Italian with curly black hair and just the right amount of stubble. He gave her a bashful smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “If I wasn’t married….” Poppy sighed wistfully. “Mmm. I’d eat him alive.”

“Well, he is delicious.” Jennifer quickly popped another piece of cheese in her mouth as she tried to suppress a knowing smile.

Poppy gaped at her. “Wait. Did you—?”

Jennifer shrugged coyly, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god, you little slut.”

“I guess that’s one of the benefits of having a dead husband,” I chimed in with a smile. “Along with the money, of course.”

All of the sounds in the restaurant seemed to cut out at the same time. An awkward silence descended over the table like a thundercloud. Jennifer’s eyes welled with tears. Poppy glanced at Lisa with an exaggerated grimace; Lisa responded by mouthing a silent “ouch.”

My stomach plummeted. It had been a few months since Jennifer’s husband dropped dead while running on the treadmill in their penthouse. He was a serial philanderer, most recently seen dining with a woman half Jennifer’s age at Le Coucou. Jennifer had been teasing the idea of getting a divorce for years, but she feared the prenup would leave her with too little money to sustain her fabulous lifestyle. Luckily, God stepped in and declared the contract null and void—all of her dead husband’s cash and assets were left to her. I assumed she was glad to be rid of the guy, but judging by her reaction to my comment, she wasn’t quite ready to joke about it yet.

Stammering, I tried to backpedal. “Oh. Oh, no. Jennifer. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay.” Jennifer forced a smile. “It’s fine.” She raised her eyebrows and gave a short, joyless chuckle as she mindlessly jabbed a toothpick into a square of cheese. “You’re not wrong.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s fine,” Jennifer insisted. She speared the cheese with one last stab, then flicked the toothpick onto the tablecloth. “I’m over it.”

“Anyway…” Lisa said to Jennifer, trying to change the subject. “What I want to know is how you look ten years younger since the last time we saw you.”

Jennifer’s demeanor brightened. “Do I?”

“At least ten years,” Poppy confirmed. “What’s your secret?”

Jennifer extended her arm toward Poppy. “Feel.” Poppy ran her fingers along the flawless white skin of Jennifer’s forearm. “Nice, right?”

“Is it Crème de la Mer? It has to be.”

Jennifer chuckled. “Ha. Not quite.”

“So?” Lisa gave Jennifer a nudge with her elbow. “What is it?”

Jennifer sat up straight and peered around the restaurant, surveying the nearby tables for eavesdroppers. The other diners seemed to be fully immersed in their own conversations. Satisfied that nobody was listening, she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I can trust you girls, right?” We all nodded and huddled in closer to hear what Jennifer was about to say. “Okay. Have you heard of Second Skin?”

I’d never heard of it, but I didn’t want to seem out of the loop. “Of course,” I replied. “It’s fabulous.”

Jennifer narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been there?”

“Well, no, but…”

“I didn’t think so,” she sniffed.

Her dismissive tone made me feel three sizes smaller, and not in a good way. I took a delicate sip of my martini, quelling the urge to shatter the glass on the table and shove the jagged stem into Jennifer’s eye.

“Wait, Second Skin is a place?” Lisa asked, seeming confused. “It thought it was a cream.”

“It’s not just a place. It’s an experience. By far the most luxurious spa I’ve ever been to. It’s literally heaven.”

Poppy looked intrigued. “Better than the Four Seasons?”

“It makes the Four Seasons look like a porta potty.”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of it?” Lisa asked, cocking a skeptical eyebrow as far as the Botox would allow.

“And why are we talking about it like we’re doing espionage?” Poppy whispered.

“That’s the thing,” Jennifer lowered her voice even more. “It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t have a sign. It doesn’t have a storefront. It doesn’t even have an address. It’s completely underground, like when we used to go to those raves back in the day. They even made me sign an NDA.”

“As all the best raves do,” deadpanned Lisa.

Still silently fuming, I crossed my arms over my chest and asked, “How did you hear about it if it’s so secret?”

Jennifer opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. After a moment of hesitation, she answered. “I can’t say.”

“So,” Poppy took a sip of her drink, then licked the sugar off her lips. “When do we go?”

“You can’t.”

Poppy pouted with disappointment. “Why not?”

“Yeah,” Lisa added. “What are they gonna do, kill you?”

“I’m sorry, I just, uh—” Jennifer cleared her throat. “I just don’t want to take any chances.”

“Wow, okay,” Lisa said. She sounded mildly annoyed. “So, why did you even tell us about it?”

“You asked!”

“Well, technically, I asked, but it’s fine,” Poppy said with a shrug. “We’ll just keep slumming it at the Four Seasons. Right, ladies?”

“To slumming it,” Lisa said, raising her glass in a toast.

Poppy and Jennifer laughed. After a moment, I forced myself to join in, giggling brightly like the others. I clinked my glass with theirs. “To slumming it.”

“Thanks, girls!” I waved to Poppy and Lisa as they climbed into a black Town Car outside Riposo. “It was fun!”

Jennifer stood beside me. She finished sending a text message, then dropped her phone into her oversized Birkin bag. “Ciao!” she called. She blew a kiss and waved as the car pulled away from the curb. Once it was gone, she turned to me. “You walking?”

I looked up at the cloudless sky. “Might as well.” I smoothed my hands over my thighs and around my bottom. “I could use the exercise.”

“Stop,” Jennifer said. “You’re literally perfect.”

I spat out a bitter laugh. “Ha. Tell that to Arthur.”

“Arthur is an idiot if he can’t see how amazing you are. Come on.” She offered her arm. “Let’s walk.”

I took Jennifer’s arm, and we started strolling. We lived just two blocks away from each other, both of our penthouses overlooking the same stretch of Central Park. In fact, I was the one who helped Jennifer and her husband secure the lease when the co-op board balked at the size of their bank account. It was huge by any reasonable measure but was undersized compared to the other residents in the building. I knew several members of the board from my private-school days, so I put in a call to reassure them that Jennifer deserved a spot in the building. She never thanked me.

We walked in silence for a minute before I decided to apologize again. That was another thing my mother had taught me: never allow an apology to go unaccepted. It was bad luck.

“Jennifer,” I said, “I am so sorry about what I said earlier.”

Jennifer waved her hand dismissively. “Forget about it.”

“No, seriously. I should have been more sensitive. I know how hard it’s been.”

“Honestly, I’m tired of talking about me. Let’s talk about you. Tell me about you and Arthur. What’s the deal?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to be supportive or just nosy. Either way, I didn’t really feel like going into details. “He’s just… It’s been like six months.”

“Since?”

“Since… you know.”

“No sex?”

I shrugged. The fact was, it was worse than just no sex. He didn’t even seem to look at me anymore. He was out the door before I woke up and stayed out so late that I often fell asleep on the couch before he made it home. The click of the deadbolt would wake me, a waft of cigarette smoke, brandy, and something floral drifting by as he walked past and headed up the stairs to bed. Sometimes, he didn’t even say good night.

Jennifer winced and drew in a sharp breath. “Yeah, that’s not good. I wonder why. He couldn’t get enough of me back when we were dating. I used to have to beat him off with a stick. I mean, not beat him off with a stick, but….” She laughed at the double entendre. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, well,” I smiled through a clenched jaw. Jennifer never missed the chance to remind me that Arthur had loved her before he loved me. “That was a long time ago.”

“Obviously. What do you think his problem is?”

My eyes fell. “It’s not him. It’s me. I think he’s just not attracted to me anymore. I know I’ve gained some weight, but come on—I’m almost fifty. It could be worse, right?”

“So much worse. You think he’s cheating?”

The question hit me like a smack in the face, causing me to flinch. A sense memory of that floral scent intermixed with the more masculine odors from the bar made my eyes water. “No! I mean, I’d like to think he wouldn’t, but…” I abruptly stopped walking, pulling my arm away from Jennifer and covering my face with my hands. A sob escaped from my lips. I knew she was right—he almost certainly was cheating. But hearing Jennifer say it out loud suddenly crystallized the idea in a way that made it more real than it had ever seemed before.

Jennifer embraced me in a comforting hug. “Come here.” She placed her hand on my head, allowing me to cry against her shoulder. “Shh. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled by the fabric of her dress.

“Girl, please. You really need to stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.” I sputtered a sobbing laugh, then stepped away from Jennifer and wiped my cheeks with my hands. “Christ, I’m a mess.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed at my eyes. “Thank god for waterproof mascara, at least.”

“You know what I think?” Jennifer said with a conspiratorial whisper.

“What?”

“I think you should try Second Skin.”

I crumpled up the tissue and dropped it back into her purse. “I thought we weren’t supposed to know about that.”

“You’re not, but… what the hell. Maybe I can get you in.”

“You’d do that for me?” I clasped my hands to my chest, genuinely touched by the gesture. Jennifer and I had always had somewhat of a competitive friendship—more frenemies than friends, especially after what happened with Arthur. That definitely made it weird for a while. The awkwardness faded over time, but it left a waxy residue of resentment on our relationship that never seemed to dissolve entirely.

“For you?” Jennifer traced a cool finger down my cheek, catching a runaway tear as it slipped from my eye. “Anything.”

“You sure this is the right place?” I asked. I checked the text message from Jennifer on my iPhone, then peered out the backseat window of the taxi. The address on the building where the cab was idling matched the one in Jennifer’s text, but it certainly didn’t seem like the location of the most exclusive spa in the city. Graffitied plywood hung over the windows. A long row of homeless people in cardboard boxes and dirty tents lined the sidewalk. A drug addict slumped unconscious in the doorway, a needle still dangling from his arm.

“This is it,” the cab driver confirmed. He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You getting out or what?”

“I guess so.” I dug a hundred-dollar bill out of my purse and handed it to the driver. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks. You have a good one.” As I opened the door, he added, “Stay safe out there. This area—it’s, uh—it’s not great.”

“I’ll try.” I stepped out of the cab and closed the creaking door with a thud. The taxi’s tires screeched as it pulled away, leaving me alone on the curb. Jennifer had warned me that the spa was “inconveniently located,” but she failed to mention it was in the worst neighborhood in the city. She just said to follow her instructions and everything would be fine.

With that in mind, I rechecked my phone, then set off down the sidewalk and into the alley on the side of the building. The sound of a power saw screamed from somewhere inside one of the buildings. I passed a dumpster piled high with oversized trash bags, stepping over a puddle of unidentifiable, brownish-red effluence dripping from one of them. Just beyond the dumpster was a rusted metal door with no handle, exactly as Jennifer had described. As unlikely as it seemed, I was in the right place.

I was about to pound on the door when it suddenly swung open, startling me. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know—” I stopped mid-sentence. There was nobody there; the door had opened on its own. “Hello?” I called. No answer.

I looked down the alley in each direction, then looked up. An expensive-looking surveillance camera was mounted on the wall above the door. I breathed out a nervous laugh. “Okay, I see,” I said to myself. Obviously, someone watching through that camera had opened the door remotely.

After a brief hesitation, I stepped through the doorway. As soon as I passed the threshold, the door swung shut behind me with a slam like a gunshot. The sound ricocheted off the cinderblock walls of the stairwell. “Hello?” I called. Again, there was no answer, just the echo of my voice disappearing into the shadows below.

Jennifer’s instructions said to go down the stairs to the bottom floor, so I used my phone’s flashlight to guide my way. I carefully descended several levels before arriving at a door with a glowing green EXIT sign. Confident I was still on the right track, I pushed through the door and emerged into an empty underground parking garage. Long rows of fluorescent lights flickered on the ceiling, creating an eerie strobe effect that made me feel like I had wandered onto the set of the movie Saw.

“This is nuts,” I mumbled. I considered turning around and heading back up the stairs, but then I realized the exit door had locked behind me. I had no choice but to go on.

Jennifer told me to look for a pair of glass doors after I went through the exit. Sure enough, that’s exactly what I saw. The rapid clacking of my high heels reverberated through the vast expanse of the garage as I speed-walked across the oil-stained concrete to the doors. They were fully papered over with newsprint that had to be at least twenty-five years old, judging by the image of the Twin Towers in one of the faded photos. This time, I noticed the surveillance camera over the doors right away, so it didn’t surprise me as much when they opened automatically. What did surprise me, however, was what I saw on the other side.

Beyond the glass doors was the most breathtakingly grandiose spa I had ever seen. The lavishness was especially shocking compared to the surrounding neighborhood—it was like opening the door to a crackhouse and finding Versailles inside. Indeed, the decor reminded me of the palace’s Hall of Mirrors: parquet wood floor, arched ceilings painted with intricate murals, enormous crystal chandeliers, and paneled walls accented with gold-leaf trim. In the center of the room, a string quartet played a peaceful rendition of Bach’s “The Art of Fugue”.

A stunning brunette in a smart black pantsuit and a crisp white blouse ushered me through the doors. “Ms. Rosenthal, please,” she said with a hint of a French accent. “Welcome to Second Skin.” The doors swung shut silently behind me as I entered. “My name is Adrienne,” the woman continued, “and I’ll be your host this afternoon. May I?” She extended her hand toward my purse.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” I handed my Louis Vuitton bag to Adrienne, who quickly passed it to an usher. The man disappeared through a doorway into what I assumed was a coat room. It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized I probably should have held onto my phone. But before I could protest, another usher appeared with a crystal champagne flute on a silver platter.

“Champagne, madam?” He bowed slightly.

I giggled with delight. “Wow. You don’t waste any time here, do you?” I took the glass and sipped the champagne. The taste was exquisite. “Mmm,” I said to Adrienne. “This is delicious!”

“Yes,” Adrienne replied. “Louis Roederer, Cristal nineteen ninety-six. It’s quite special. Please…” Adrienne guided me toward a hallway lined with candelabras. The dancing flames cast a golden glow on the dark wood walls. It was like stepping directly into seventeenth-century France.

As I followed Adrienne, I noticed a woman in her sixties watching me from across the room. She wore a white robe and slippers, so she was obviously a client of the spa. The woman whispered something to her own concierge, a slim blonde outfitted identically to Adrienne. I wasn’t exactly a trained lip reader, but it seemed like the woman said, “That one?” The concierge glanced at me, then whispered something back to the woman. The woman sipped her champagne and nodded approvingly.

The moment made me uncomfortable, but I quickly dismissed the feeling. I was used to getting dirty looks from older women jealous of my relative youth and beauty—typical Metropolitan Club bullshit. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Even as I aged, there would always be someone older and uglier who couldn’t stand the look of me. It was inevitable.

“So,” I asked Adrienne as I followed her down the hall, “how does this work, exactly? Is there a menu of services?”

“It’s quite simple,” Adrienne replied. “I’ll escort you to one of our suites, where you’ll disrobe, bathe, dine, and relax for as long as you desire. Once you’re ready, you’ll let me know, and I’ll bring you to your first service.”

“And that is?”

“A surprise,” she answered breathily, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous gleam in the candlelight. “Trust me. It will be an experience you won’t soon forget.” She arrived at an ornately carved wooden door and pushed it open. “Here we are. Your suite.”

I expected the “suite” to be little more than a glorified dressing room, so I was shocked to see it was the size of a large apartment. It had a living area with a full buffet of fruit, desserts, charcuterie, pastries, and champagne. Through a pair of French doors was a bedroom with a king-sized bed, a changing area, and a bathroom with a shower big enough to house the string quartet from the lobby. The only thing missing was windows—it seemed the suite was fully underground. That made sense, considering how many flights of stairs I had come down on the way in.

I wandered into the suite, sipping my champagne as I admired the impressive accommodations. “This is all for me?”

“Indeed,” Adrienne said. “Today is entirely about you. So, enjoy. Take your time. And when you’re ready, you’ll simply press this button to let me know.”

I turned to see Adrienne indicating a gold button on the wall next to the entrance. In the hallway behind her, a woman with fair skin and copper-colored hair walked past the door. The woman quickly glanced into the suite as she passed, then disappeared down the hall.

“Jennifer?” I said. I spoke out loud, but mostly to myself. I had only caught a glimpse of the woman, but it looked a lot like my friend. Jennifer hadn’t mentioned she would be at Second Skin; maybe it was a last-minute thing. Or perhaps she had messaged my phone to tell me—the phone that was in my purse, locked away elsewhere in the building.

“Jennifer!” I called again, louder this time. I moved toward the door, hoping to catch the maybe-Jennifer before she entered her own suite, but Adrienne blocked my path.

“No, no. I assure you, Ms. Rosenthal, that was not your Jennifer.”

I tried to peek over Adrienne’s shoulder into the hall. “Are you sure?”

“Most certainly. Come,” Adrienne placed a hand on my arm and guided me gently but firmly back into the suite, closing the door with her other hand as she did. The sound of a heavy deadbolt thudded inside the wall. “Let me show you the bath.”

I dried my hair with a downy-soft Egyptian cotton towel, then applied a layer of moisturizer over every inch of my body. The lotion had a delicate citrus scent with a bit of an astringent sting that made it feel and smell absolutely exhilarating. It was incredible how soft the moisturizer made my skin—it felt as flawless and smooth as a newborn baby. As I examined my naked body in the full-length mirror, I actually felt beautiful for the first time in a long time. I wished Arthur was there to see me. Maybe then he’d be interested in me again.

Suddenly, Jennifer’s words from the other day popped into my head. “He couldn’t get enough of me back when we were dating.” Arthur had dated Jennifer shortly after college, but she broke up with him in favor of a surgeon who eventually became her now-deceased husband. I always wondered whether Arthur still had feelings for Jennifer. Or she for him, frankly. I couldn’t help but feel competitive. After all, Jennifer was taller, thinner, prettier—I could hardly fault Arthur if he was more interested in her than his own wife.

Stop it, I thought. Arthur is yours. He loves you. You won.

After taking a few deep breaths to restore my sense of calm, I donned a thick white robe and wandered into the living room to peruse the buffet. I indulged in a few chocolate-covered strawberries, then helped myself to another glass of champagne. I had always been a lightweight when it came to alcohol, but something about the champagne made me feel way tipsier than I expected. By the time I finished my second glass, I was already heavily buzzed.

Satisfied with my snack, I crossed the snow-white carpet and pressed the golden button on the wall by the door. A pleasant chime sounded, which I assumed would inform Adrienne that I was ready for whatever came next. I was excited about the surprise service the concierge had teased. Would it be an eight-handed massage? A white caviar facial? A volcanic mud bath? I could only imagine what kinds of unique luxuries a place like Second Skin had to offer.

I picked up a third glass of champagne from the buffet and then reclined on a chaise lounge to relax while I waited for Adrienne to return. As if by magic, the lights dimmed, and an ambient soundscape of Tibetan singing bowls and chirping birds began to emanate from hidden speakers. The air filled with a fragrant aromatherapy mist. I felt my eyelids grow heavy. The combination of the alcohol, the bath, and the relaxing ambiance was making me incredibly sleepy.

As I drifted off, the crystal champagne glass slipped from my fingers onto the floor.

I’m naked, I thought as I emerged from the deepest sleep I had ever experienced. Why am I naked? For a moment, I had no idea where I was. My brain felt like it had been dipped in glue and rolled in cotton. Then, I remembered: I was at Versailles. No, not Versailles. The spa. Second Skin. The one that Jennifer had gotten me into, the one she wasn’t even allowed to talk about. Is this Fight Club? I smiled deliriously at the thought. I was pretty sure Fight Club didn’t serve thousand-dollar bottles of champagne. And besides, Brad Pitt was nowhere to be found.

My eyelids fluttered as I struggled to remain conscious. When my vision cleared, I found myself staring up at the ceiling of what appeared to be an operating room. A brilliant white light was positioned directly over my face, blinding me. I lifted my head to look at my body and saw that I was indeed naked, spreadeagled on a star-shaped table with padded restraints around my wrists and ankles. Odd markings were drawn on my skin with black Sharpie, tracing dotted lines along the sides of my limbs, around my wrists and ankles, and down the center of my torso, from my neck to my groin. Tiny numbers were written with the same Sharpie at various places around my body.

“Just relax,” a woman’s voice intoned. “We’ll be getting started in a minute.”

I groggily rolled my head toward the voice. It was the concierge, Adrienne. But why were her hands blue? No, her hands weren’t blue—she was wearing gloves. Surgical gloves. A tray lined with gleaming surgical implements was positioned beside her. It had scalpels. Scissors. A bone saw.

Adrienne tapped her finger against a large syringe, squirted a stream of clear liquid into the air, and wiped my arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

“H-hey,” I slurred. “W-what are you d-doing?”

“I’m just giving you a little something to help you relax until the doctor is ready.”

“Doctor?”

“Why, of course. You wouldn’t want anyone else to do this procedure, would you?” Adrienne smiled brightly as she inserted the needle into my arm. “I sure wouldn’t.”

Behind Adrienne, a door opened and three people entered the operating room: the older woman who had been eyeing me when I entered the spa, the woman’s blonde concierge, and a third woman who reminded me of the seamstress who had fitted me for my wedding dress. I wondered why I made that connection, then realized it was because of the red measuring tape draped around the woman’s neck.

The three women walked into a room adjacent to the operating room. The older woman removed her robe, leaving herself completely naked. I watched as the seamstress began taking the woman’s measurements: the length of her arms and legs, the circumference of her chest, waist, and hips—the sort of measurements typical of a dress fitting. But then she did something I had never seen before. She began to measure the woman’s head. Her neck. Her face. With each measurement, she recited the values to the blonde concierge, who wrote the numbers on a clipboard.

When the seamstress was done measuring the older woman, she returned to the operating room with the clipboard. She circled my body, examining the dotted lines and tiny numbers while jotting additional notes on the clipboard. In various places, she pinched my skin, stretching it as if to test its elasticity. It should have been painful, but I couldn’t feel a thing. It was like I was watching the seamstress from inside a glass bubble, like the body she was poking and prodding belonged to someone else. I tried to speak, to ask what she was doing, but my tongue felt thick and useless in my mouth. A wave of dizziness overcame me. As I struggled to maintain consciousness, I saw the seamstress examine the numbers on her clipboard one last time, comparing the measurements from the older woman’s body to my own.

“Looks like Jennifer was right,” the seamstress said to Adrienne with a smile. “Should be a perfect fit.”

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