I had invested everything in that kid. Twenty years as a mechanic, elbow-deep in grease and filth, just to give him a shot at medical school. My retirement plan, I called him. After seven gruelling years, Nathan was finally on the cusp of becoming a board-certified plastic surgeon.

All that remained was his magnum opus. Like any apprentice, he was expected to present a singular masterpiece to the graduation board that demonstrated his mastery of every technique. Nathan had prepared for months, and had found a volunteer in a pre-op trans woman, but when she bailed at the last minute, he was left in a bind. If he missed the review window, he'd have to wait another year, and with tuition fees mounting, there was a good chance the money would run dry before then.

Well, I wasn't just about to let my meal ticket flunk out like that. I volunteered. It wasn't ideal, but modern organ preservation would allow for everything to be reattached afterwards, so long as he didn't take too long. He took a lot of convincing. But eventually, there I was, strapped to a gurney in the college surgical theatre, as he nervously pressed an anaesthetic mask over my face.

"See you when I wake up, doctor," I grin encouragingly.

Five stern, grey-haired heads scowling down at you is not a pleasant first sight upon waking through a drugged haze. They paw and poke at my face, my throat, between my legs. One cups my tight, sensitive chest, clucking his tongue. I blink up at Nathan in confusion as they turn on him.

"Thought you could just pass a real woman off as your work, did you?" the professor snaps. "Absolutely shameless. Graduation denied. You'd best try much harder next year."