Consider Read Online Free Page A

Wonder what she’ll think of my dad when he gets here.
    She cleans my wound, applies a clear antibiotic cream, and bandages my arm. I feel like a science project. She’s lucky I’m not a hypochondriac. Medical things don’t scare me since science is technical. It uses data and provides clear answers. In fact, the whole time she’s working on me, I watch her every step. I swear if I ever have to have surgery, I’ll ask to stay conscious. No ambiguity, no anxiety.
    A commotion begins down the hallway as a team of HAZMAT workers struggle with an unruly patient. The HAZMAT woman finishes my medical interrogation and moves to help. They bring the female patient over to our area but avoid placing her near any children. She’s around my mother’s age with long brown hair that’s dripping wet from the forced shower. When they carry her through the unit, the smell of burnt rubber follows her body, even after being cleaned. As she struggles with them, her paper dress rips and exposes her ribcage.
    I want to cover her with a blanket and force feed her oatmeal.
    She puts up a valiant fight against invisible demons, her eyes focusing on inanimate objects instead of people.
    “Between the idea and the reality,” she screams at a wall.
    “Relax,” I hear a male voice command from a HAZMAT suit. She kicks and bites at his uniform. One person preps a syringe. They lay her on a bed and hold her down.
    “Falls the shadow,” she yells at a monitor.
    Someone pulls the curtain closed. “She’ll be out in a second,” I hear one HAZMAT suit say.
    The curtain opens, and most of the HAZMAT team leaves her private cocoon.
    As they pass by me, I hear one of them say to the other, “This is only the beginning.”
    As I sit on my hospital cot waiting for the next round of testing, I can just make out the crazy lady through a crack in the curtain. Her chest rises and falls like a robot on a schedule. I’m not sure what they gave her, but whatever it was, it worked. Something about her stirs a deep fear in me, and I think about my dad. After returning from active duty, he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Gulf War Syndrome. When Benji and I were little, we used to watch Dad secretly as he unraveled at night. Seeing the crazy lady spout nonsense reminds me of Dad back then. I hated watching him self-destruct, yet I couldn’t stop being the ever-vigilant daughter. Still can’t.
    Hours tick by. If it takes any longer, I might need some of crazy lady’s medication when mine runs out. I wish I had my journal to keep track of everything. Plus it would give me something to do rather than just sit and think in circles.
    The HAZMAT worker with the cold blue eyes returns. “Your parents are here. They have to wait in a separate area apart from vertex patients, but I’ll let them know you’re okay.”
    “Thanks,” I say. I almost ask how my dad seemed, but I stop myself. “How much longer?”
    “I have no idea. It’s up to the CDC.”
    CDC. Center for Disease Control. My anxiety antenna spikes at the thought of having an alien disease.
    Another staff member turns on television sets and plays Aladdin on all screens.
    I close my eyes and visualize my safe place. It’s a scene I remember from a screen saver. Bright blue island sky. White rope hammock tied to palm trees. A book waiting for me. Pages flipping in the wind. I wonder how Dominick is doing. If they called his mother. If she actually showed up. If he’s as afraid as I am.
    The staff brings cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with milk or juice. It’s weird to accept food from people wearing head-to-toe protective gear. All I can think about is the Doctor Who episode where people’s faces turn into gas masks. Makes the food much less appetizing.
    An hour later, my legs can’t sit still anymore. I need information. As soon as the workers move out of our section, I scramble off the cot, patter across the plasticized floor for the remote, and change the