What You Make of It

"I do not understand aesthetic concerns about disfigurement," said Hawkins, sawing diligently.  Flecks of red spattered his chin.  "By definition, scars are something imposed upon you, something you had no control over.  Why be ashamed of them?"

"Yet is it not so," the demon answered from its perch on the Tivo box, "that one's will exerts influence upon the universe, and so anything you receive is your responsibility in the end, regardless of its source?"

"That's true."  Hawkins set down the saw and leaned forward.  His new knees bent the wrong way.  He dropped to all fours, smiling.  "That's very true."