The Ada used a therapist to assist with our carving plan and we discovered that humans had medical words—terms for what we were trying to do—that there were procedures, gender reassignment, transitioning. We knew what we were planning was right. Even the things that the Ada used to dislike about her body had mellowed out once we let Saint Vincent run. Then, the broad shoulders and the way they tapered down to narrow hips and small buttocks finally fit. Men’s clothes draped properly on this body—we were handsome. We considered removing the breasts utterly and tattooing the flat of her chestbone, but that decisiveness still felt wrong, one end of the spectrum rocketing unsteadily to the other end—it wasn’t us, not yet. So we chose a reduction instead of a removal; we cut down the C cups of blatant mammary tissue to small As, flat enough to not need brassieres, to not move, to be a stillness. The Ada wanted to include her human mother in the carving and we allowed it because, we supposed, vessels are loyal. But Saachi was against the surgery—she called the doctors and threatened them till they pulled out; she fought with the therapists, fought to have us seen as unstable, sick. She called Saul, who she never spoke to, not since the divorce, and told him, outed us to him.

“Your daughter is trying to cut off her breasts,” she said.

The Ada was furious but we remained calm. We understood what was necessary—humans often fail at listening, as if their stubbornness will convince the truth to change, as if they have that kind of power. They do, however, understand forceful things, cruelties—they obey those. So we terminated Saachi’s contact with the Ada’s doctors, we excluded her, exiled and excommunicated her. This was when she stopped being an emergency contact; this was why she had no access to the Ada’s doctors when As?ghara tried to kill the body. For a woman who looked to drown her loneliness in her children, it was a brutal thing to do, to push her out. But we had to strip her of power, to remind her that a mere human could not thwart us, that she stood no chance. We do not return your children until it suits us, if ever.

When we found the next doctors, the human mother knew nothing about it. The Ada brought in pictures of small chests, small enough to where we didn’t think of them as breasts, small enough to where we could feel reverted to a time when we weren’t capable of biological things, when we were neutral like we should have been. The Ada hoarded her student loan refunds until she had enough: thousands to pay the doctor and the anesthesiologist. She braided long yarn onto her locs so they could be tied back and left alone as we recovered from the surgery.

Saachi called the Ada, unaware of the plan, excited for a visit she was planning to see her sister. “I’m coming to New York,” she said. “I need to get a visa for China.”

The Ada began to panic but we brushed her aside. It was an unnecessary reaction—what a waste of time to spend it being human. We wrote to Saachi and informed her that the Ada was getting an operation the day before Saachi’s flight would arrive.

“You are welcome to stay at the apartment if you’re going to be supportive,” we wrote. “Otherwise, you have to stay at a hotel.” It was simpler this way. We were an inevitable force; it would be easier to fall into our flow than to question things. Like we said, she needed to understand. The girl belonged to us, had always belonged to us.

On the day of the surgery, the doctor drew thick black lines over the Ada’s chest. He explained how he was going to make incisions in the underneath fold of the breast, slice up the middle, ring the nipple in a smooth, round, and bloody cut. The fatty tissue would be removed; the dark circle of areolae would be made small, tiny, a bare orbit around the nipple. The gashes would be stitched with a material that the flesh would take in later so it wouldn’t have to be taken out. Pictures were taken. They slid a thin and strong length of hollow metal into the Ada’s arm and fed her drugs through it. She had never been sedated before; we had known nothing of the taste of such drugs since the days we were born, and it was a strange artificiality as we counted down, as we went absolutely nowhere. There were no gates, no middle spaces—we were just gone and then we were back and it was hours later and we were missing weight from our chest.

Saachi arrived the next day and said nothing about the surgery, asked no questions. We approved of her decision. She accompanied the Ada to the post-op appointment, to the clean, organized waiting room, then back to the exposed brick of the Ada’s apartment and her yellow kitchen. She helped the Ada change the dressings and caught her arm when the heat from the shower made our body faint. It was a relief; we were grateful for the reprieve, not for us, no, but for the Ada. Malena was there as well, witness as she always was, and the Ada smiled to see her mother share Heinekens and Dominican cigars with this her saintridden friend. As for us, we were fascinated by the white tape that hid the cuts, by the fine stitching, by the new body. We juggled the Ada’s chemistry and decided to purify her: we ran through her cells and rejected alcohol, meat, dairy, processed sugars; we made them cramp her stomach, hurt her head, and twist her intestines. This was our body and it would become what we wanted, now that the reconfiguring was done.

Before the surgery, the Ada had told her friends that she couldn’t wait for when she could wear dresses again. They were confused. They stared at her bound chest and boy clothes.

“Why would you go more feminine without boobs?” they asked. “Most people get it done to be more masculine.”