At the nurses' station she signed forms. The ink smeared where her fingers touched the paper. She apologized and the nurse said it was fine, they'd seen worse, and handed her another copy.
The second form was identical. Same boxes, same lines for signature, same fine print about consent and liability. She held the pen differently this time — higher up, away from the wet places — and the letters came out thin and careful, unlike her usual hand.
The nurse didn't compare them. Filed the clean one, recycled the first. Both carried the same legal weight, both would authorize the same procedure. The difference was presentational.
She thought about that later. Not the surgery, which went as surgeries go. But the second form — the one that made it into the file. It was her handwriting and not her handwriting. The version of her that knew to hold the pen higher, to keep the heel of her palm off the page. The version that had already ruined one copy and adjusted.
The hospital kept the corrected version. That was the one that proved she'd agreed.
She didn't disagree. She'd agreed twice, technically — once in her own hand and once in the hand she made when her own hand wasn't clean enough. Both times meaning it. But the agreement they kept was the one that had already accounted for the body. The dry one. The one that knew not to touch.