I push up my sleeve.
The skin is pale. Bare. The same as it’s been every day of my life.
She glances at it. “Other one.”
I show her.
Nothing.
She makes a note. No reaction. No surprise. Just pen moving on paper.
The silence that follows is the first wrong thing.
“It’s a late bloom,” I say. “It happens—”
“When did you last present for intake?”
The word lands like ice water.
Intake.
I’m ten years old. Crouched behind a door I’m not supposed to be near, listening to adults use words I don’t understand.Noncompliant. Unregistered. Containment.I didn’t know what they meant then.
I know now.
“I asked you a question.”
“Never.”
It comes out too quiet. She writes it down anyway.
“That’s not possible,” she says, still writing. “Intake is mandatory. There are systems.”
“And yet.”
She stands. Goes to the door. Speaks to someone I can’t see—low murmur, words I can’t make out. When she comes back, she doesn’t sit.
“You’ll remain here.”
“For how long?”
“Until verification is complete.”
“What does that—”
“A physician will confirm there’s no mark present. After that, we’ll determine next steps.”
“And if I want to leave?”
She picks up the folder.
“Someone will escort you to a holding room. You’ll have access to food and clean clothes.”
“But I can’t leave.”
“That depends on what we find.”
She’s already moving toward the door. I think maybe she’ll turn around—say something human, something that acknowledges I’m a person and this is strange and she sees me sitting here in this room.
