Oscar held the shriveled, mummified limb, its unnaturally long, inhuman fingers feeling cold and brittle in his hands.

Monica leaned in close to inspect it, her usual soft zoological curiosity showing. Her signature scent swept over him like a wave, making his chest tighten with that familiar, ache-inducing obsession. He had been hopelessly in love with her for years, though she had gently friend-zoned him twice.

“Looks like an ape’s hand,” she mused.

“Like… a monkey’s paw?” Oscar asked, holding the stinky, ominous limb. “You know, like in those old stories? Three wishes, but it all goes south?”

Monica shrugged, completely dismissive. “Never heard of it. Better put that creepy thing away, though. I’ve got to meet my parents soon. Sorry to ask after you’ve already helped clean my grandpa's attic, but could you give me a ride?”

“Yeah, of course,” Oscar nodded.

As soon as her footsteps faded down the attic stairs, Oscar looked down at the dark, dried paw. On pure, desperate impulse, he whispered the thought that had consumed his mind for years: “I wish I could be with Monica always.”

With a sickening, dry crack, one of the long fingers slowly curled into the palm. Panic flared through Oscar’s chest, and he hurled the gruesome thing into the dark corner of the attic.

Ten minutes later, on the drive to her parents' house, a heavy truck ran a red light and slammed directly into the driver's side of their car.

Oscar slowly opened his eyes to a blur of blinding fluorescent lights and harsh white walls. A rhythmic, high-pitched beeping echoed in his ears. He couldn't move, his whole head was locked down in a steel halo frame, and his entire frame felt heavy, immobilized by casts and thick bandages.

A nurse stepped into his line of sight. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise! You’re awake. The surgery worked then. Blink twice if you can hear me.”

Oscar blinked twice.

“Excellent. Let me get the doctor.”

Moments later, a tired-looking man in a lab coat stepped up to the bed. “Greetings, Oscar. I’m Doctor Hubert. Before anything else, I need to run some quick tests. Please blink twice for yes, and give me a long blink for no. Ready?”

Oscar blinked twice.

Dr. Hubert gently poked at various parts of Oscar's body under the sheet, asking if he could feel the pressure or pain. Oscar blinked twice again. Everything hurt with a dull, throbbing ache, but sensation was definitely there.

The doctor let out a heavy sigh. “Alright. The procedure appears to have been a success. Now, this next part will be difficult to hear, but the sooner you know, the sooner your brain can begin to accept your new reality. I’m deeply sorry, but your friend Monica died in the accident. A severe hematoma caused a seizure, and she passed on the operating table.”

Oscar’s eyes dilated in pure horror. What little skin was visible beneath his facial wrappings went deathly pale, and tears pooled in his eyes.

“In your case,” Dr. Hubert continued softly, “your original body was in catastrophic condition. Multiple organ systems were failing, and both of your legs had to be amputated at the scene just to extract you from the wreckage.”

Oscar’s eyes darted frantically downward. Beneath the white hospital sheet, he could clearly see two leg-shaped mounds. He had felt the doctor poke his toes only moments ago.

Dr. Hubert noticed his gaze. “I’m afraid those aren’t your original legs, Oscar. In order to save your life, we had the extraordinarily rare opportunity of an immediate, compatible donor. We performed an experimental brain transplant, transferring your brain into its body. The good news is that all the main nerve clusters have connected successfully to your cerebellum. The not-so-great news… the donor was Monica.”

Oscar tried to scream, but the gizmos clamping his head and the tube down his throat reduced it to a muffled, frantic groan. He began to shake violently, thrashing against his restraints until Dr. Hubert injected a sedative into his IV, plunging him back into darkness.

Weeks dragged on in a haze of psychiatric therapy, heavy painkillers, and crushing grief.

Finally came the day before his discharge. The room was quiet as the psychiatrist stood beside him, holding up a full-length mirror so Oscar could finally confront what he had become.

Oscar stared.

Monica’s face stared back at him, her delicate features pale, bruised, and weak, her eyes raw and swollen from tears. Oscar raised two slender, feminine hands to touch his new cheeks. He felt the dried out but still soft texture of her skin against his fingers, the heavy weight of her breasts rising and falling with every intake of air, and the startling, hollow absence of his own male body between her legs.

He tried to cry out for his lost friend, but the sound that escaped her lips was only a soft, trembling female sob.

His mind was his own, but everything else belonged to her. He would carry her voice, her skin, and her heart with him for the rest of his life.

The paw had granted his wish. Oscar would finally be with Monica always.