PRESTON
I walk into the Residents’ Lounge after trying and failing to find Luke to resume our to be continued scene, desperate for caffeine and silence to sort my head out.
I stop.
The lounge is usually a depressing cave filled with mismatched chairs, a stain on the rug that looks like Rorschach’s nightmare, and the smell of stale popcorn.
Today, however, the lounge smells of... palo santo?
And it is empty.
The couch is gone. The table is gone. The lockers have been draped in beige linen.
Standing in the centre of the room is a man wearing a kimono and holding a copper tuning fork. He strikes the fork against his knee.HMMMMMM.
“The resonance is still blocked,” he whispers to the wall. “It is the sorrow of the drywall.”
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping inside. “Where is the couch? I need to sit on the couch. My legs have ceased to function.”
The man turns. He looks at me with eyes that are far too wide.
“The couch was holding trauma,” he says. “We released it.”
“Released it where?”
“To the hallway. It was disrupting the flow ofQi.”
I close my eyes. I know this smell. I know this vocabulary.
“Mother sent you,” I state.
“Catherine feels the energy in this sector is hostile,” the man confirms. “I am Sven. I am a Vibrational Architect. I am here to align your chakras with the HVAC system.”
“My chakras are fine, Sven. My mother is insane. Please bring the couch back. The residents need to sleep on it.”
“Sleep is a crutch for the unaligned,” Sven says dismissively. He walks over to the kitchenette.
He stops in front of the La Marzocco Linea Mini.MyLinea Mini.
He frowns. He holds the tuning fork up to the steam wand.
“This,” Sven says, pointing a trembling finger at the machine. “This is a vortex of chaotic energy. It vibrates at a frequency of anxiety. It must be cleansed.”
He reaches for a bundle of sage. He reaches for a lighter.
“Sven,” I warn, stepping forward. “If you light that sage in a hospital, the sprinklers will go off. And if the sprinklers go off, the MRI machine shorts out. And if the MRI machine shorts out, Dr. Silva will kill me. And he won’t use a tuning fork. He will use a scalpel.”
“The machine is evil!” Sven shouts. “It screams!”
“It steams!” I shout back. “Step away from the espresso maker!”
“What in the name of San Juan is happening in here?”
We both freeze.
Mama Ortiz stands in the doorway. She is holding her lunch bag. She looks at the beige drapes. She looks at the missing couch. She looks at Sven, who is brandishing a smoking sage bundle.
Her eyes narrow.
