Page 53

Consciously, I know I don’t have a life-threatening fungal infection. Cordyceps can’t take hold in human bodies, not according to the Wikipedia page I fumbled through on the way here. But that doesn’t shut up the urge to walk in and demand that the doctors do something. Throw a fit until they take my blood, run a battery of tests, order an MRI to make sure. Something’s wrong. Something’s always been wrong. Find it and take it out and fix it, now.

I’m so focused on the front desk that I’m startled when the doors actually hiss open.

A big Vietnamese woman with messy hair grouches her way out of the waiting room, snapping over her shoulder, “I need some goddamn air,” and fishes in her pocket for a cigarette.

A sign declares it’s illegal to smoke within fifteen feet of the entrance. She swears when she sees it, and counts out fifteen paces from the door before lighting up.

A few yards away, she notices me.

We blink at each other.

“Shit,” she says, stuffing the lighter back in her sweatshirt pocket. “Morgan?”

I’ve never seen Dr. Terry Lý anywhere but in her expensive leather recliner, hair swept back under a teal bandana and cat-eye glasses perched on her nose. She wasn’t monotone or overly soft, the way I thought therapists were supposed to be—she wasn’t afraid to scoff or roll her eyes—but she was always put together.

She’s not, now. There’s a stain on her shirt, and one of her shoes is untied.

My voice comes out raspy. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” Dr. Lý says, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and casting about for somewhere to dispose of it. There’s one of those long-necked ashtrays by a bench. She jams it in. “Or, I didn’t. I try not to. What are you doing here?”

“You first.”

Instead of shutting it down with a nonanswer like she used to, We’re not here to talk about me, Dr. Lý sighs. “Dropping off my aunt. She woke up an hour ago with a sore throat and deemed herself deathly allergic to my laundry detergent. She’s not, but she kicked up enough of a fuss, so here we are.” She rubs her face as if to get color in her cheeks, make herself look more awake. “I apologize for running into you like this. Not the most professional.”

“Your aunt sounds annoying,” I say.

“Well, you don’t live with her, so you don’t get to decide that.”

I wrap my arms around myself, rocking slightly. Whatever.

“Is your mom here?” Dr. Lý asks.

“No.”

“Okay. Why don’t we sit down.” When I shake my head, she changes course. “That’s fine. We can stand if it makes you feel better. Sometimes it’s nice to be on your feet.”

“Can I have a cigarette?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I think that would make me feel better.”

Dr. Lý goes to the nearest trash can and throws away the entire pack.

I grimace. “That’s, like, ten dollars you just dumped.”

“Ten dollars I can spare.”

Ten dollars thrown away to spite me is more like it. A particularly biting gust whips down the wind tunnel made by the hospital and the neighboring building, whistling as it goes. Dr. Lý swears again, squinting frustratedly at the sky as she huddles into her sweatshirt. I’m vaguely aware that I should be cold, but I’m not.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s try again. Do I need to walk you inside?”

No.

Yes.

Maybe.