I could feel the burning in my middle finger from the hand sanitizer I’d applied just before leaving,
and so I was pressing the Band-Aid into my middle finger, simultaneously worsening and relieving the pain.
I hadn’t texted Davis over the weekend. I kept thinking about it, but the night at Applebee’s passed,
and then I’d started to feel nervous about it, like maybe it had been too long,
and Daisy wasn’t around to bully me into it because she was working all weekend.
Mom must’ve noticed the Band-Aid pressing, because she said, “You have an appointment with Dr. Singh tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” “What are your thoughts on the med situation?” “It’s okay, I guess,” which wasn’t quite the whole truth.
For one thing, I wasn’t convinced the circular white pill was doing anything when I did take it,
and for another, I was not taking it quite as often as I was technically supposed to.
Partly, I kept forgetting, but also there was something else I couldn’t quite identify, some way-down fear that taking a pill to become myself was wrong.
“You there?” Mom asked. “Yeah,” I said. Enough of me—but only just enough—was still located inside Harold to hear her voice,
to follow the well-worn path to school. “Just be honest with Dr. Singh, okay? There’s no need to suffer.”
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