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Lux had always believed that you could know someone’s life story when given the topography of his hands, laid out like a textured map.  Not palm reading—that was New Age bullshit as far as she was concerned—but no matter who you were or what you did, the passing years left relics on your skin in the form of scars and wrinkles and imperfections.  When she met someone new for the first time, she liked being able to shake his hand, read a little bit of his history as if it were written there in Braille.