Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“Did she draw blood often?”
Rubbing my sweaty palms against my scrubs, a different kind than I’m used to wearing and yet still kind of the same, I study a sliver of tile that’s visible between the table and the chair. When I look up from the floor, I stare unblinkingly at her as she repeats the question. Her voice is monotone, drab and uninspiring, not unlike our surroundings. She utters the words calmly, speaking slowly, as though I simply missed them the first time. As though maybe I really am, as they claim, crazy.
Placing my hands on the table, palms flat, I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck. After, I make sure to sit up a little straighter. She stares at my hands. I follow suit, the both of us wondering what they’re capable of. “You wouldn’t happen to ha
