“I’m sorry,” I say, glancing down at the notes before me. I look back at the girl, taking in her expression, her eyes. Wooden beads with a silver charm in the shape of a cross, dangling like a rosary. I notice a bracelet on her wrist, an attempt to cover the nastiest scar, a deep, jagged purple. Her fingers are clenched in her lap, thin, shiny slits barely visible against the otherwise perfect skin of her hands. I look up at the patient before me, stiff as a wooden plank strapped to my oversized leather recliner. I reach for my glass of water, take a sip. The little pinwheel on my weather app was solid red. None of them looked sick, but the common cold can be contagious before ever showing any symptoms. Have I been around a sick person lately? Someone with a cold? There’s no way to be sure, really. I push my tongue back into my throat and attempt to scratch. The tip of a feather being trailed along the inside of my esophagus, top to bottom.
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