He signed it. "After Bridgman."
"Constructive," it whispered, its voice the sound of paper tearing. "Not copying. Constructing."
He framed the first one—the woman with the twisted arm—and hung it over his spreadsheet desk.
The shadow stood up. It had no face, only a cascade of anatomy plates for skin: a forearm as a fluted column, a neck as a truncated pyramid, a hand as a set of interlocking trapezoids.