Anne Hatley is a twenty-five-year-old spitfire from the South, born with a genetic mutation: She has only one leg and walks with a computerized limb.

Looking for an escape from the drudgery of work and the fiancé who bores and irritates her more than makes her happy, Anne hopes to make easy money off her genes by accepting an invitation from a research colony in Cold Spring Harbor, New York. Scientists there—DNA pioneer James D. Watson among them—are looking to develop a groundbreaking "cure" and make Anne the first patient to generate a new leg. Anne feels fine the way she is. But after years of casual cruelty at the hands of her peers, and three months of observation by callous doctors playing on her every insecurity, she capitulates.

While in residence, Anne drifts into a relationship with the rakish Nick, carrier of the “suicide gene”; becomes friends with Charles Darwin, who inexplicably pops up for chats when she’s distressed; and comes to terms with her first love, a married man she’s nicknamed “Old Faithful.” Meanwhile, she questions what it means to change from one physical form to another and becomes increasingly uncomfortable with the societal pressure to do so.

Jillian Weise was born in Houston, Texas in 1981. Her poetry collections are The Amputee's Guide to Sex and Translating the Body. She received fellowships from the the Fine Arts Work Center, the Fulbright Program and the University of North Carolina-Greensboro before accepting a position at Clemson. This is her first novel.

On Halloween, Nick called begging me to join him and the others at Sandy’s Bar. I’d planned to stay in, eat frozen pizza and watch zombies on the flat screen. Grayson called and I tucked him into bed with the phone. After waiting half an hour, to see if Grayson would call again, I took Darwin’s advice and put on the red miniskirt. I sat on the edge of the bathtub to shave my leg. The other leg had a run in the pantyhose. I put on fishnet stockings and leopard print heels with straps. I adjusted the heel-height on the fake ankle. I practiced walking in the heels, and wondered what it would be like to slip into a pair of heels without having to push a button on my ankle, what it would be like to sit on a lap without thinking—“Is the plastic digging into him?”—what it would be like not to notice the right side from the left, the real from the fake, the good from the bad, this movie seat from that, what it would be like to sit down either side without thinking, and what it would be like to never have to explain things to anyone. I looked in the full-length mirror. The calves matched exactly.