"I'm serious," I say. "She already thinks I'm a baby about getting my flu shot. If she finds out I went down like a sack of potatoes over a blood draw, I'll never hear the end of it. She'll bring it up every time she gets a chance. She'll put it in my eulogy. 'He was a good man, but he fainted at needles.' I can't have that on my permanent record, Stormy. What happens at the clinic regarding needles, stays at the clinic."
"I won't tell Sheila."
"You'd better not. Let's go get poked."
We go inside. The waiting room is standard issue. Fluorescent lights that make everyone look like they're recovering from a hangover, plastic chairs in rows, a reception desk behind a glass partition, and magazines that are six months old. There's a TV on the wall playing a talk show with the volume too low to hear and closed captions that are about three seconds behind.
I walk to the desk. Stormy is next to me, close, his shoulder almost touching my arm, and I can feel the rigidity inhis body, the way he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.
"Morning," I say to the woman behind the glass. She's got reading glasses on a chain and a name tag that says PATTY. "We'd like to get STI panels done. Both of us. Full workup."
Patty doesn't blink. She's seen everything. She hands me two clipboards with forms and two pens. "Go have a seat and fill these out," she says.
I take them both and hand one to Stormy. We sit down in the plastic chairs, side by side, and I start filling out my form.
"Name," I say out loud, writing. "Got that. Age, thirty-two, and feeling every year of it today. Address. Big Tex's Roadhouse, Panama City Beach. Technically I live above the bar, which sounds sadder than it is." I look at Stormy. "How's yours coming?"
He's staring at the form. His pen is in his hand but he hasn't written anything.
I lean over. The first field is NAME. He's staring at it.
"Whatever name you want to put," I say quietly. "Whatever name feels right. They're not checking IDs. We're paying cash. Don't worry about it."
He writes. I don't look at what he writes. That's his secret. When he's ready to show me, he'll show me.
We fill out the forms. I narrate mine like a comedy routine because it's the only tool I have right now, and I will use it until it stops working. I make him almost smile twice during the medical history section by listing "barbecue smoke inhalation" and "chronic pelican-related stress" under pre-existing conditions. I'm not actually writing those things. I'mwriting the real answers. But the performance is for him, and it works. By the time we hand the paperwork back to Patty, his shoulders have dropped half an inch.
They call us back separately. Stormy goes first because I insist. I want to be there when he comes out, standing in the waiting room where he can see me the second the door opens.
He's gone for about fifteen minutes. I sit in the plastic chair and I look at the muted TV. I don't watch it. Instead, I think about a ten-year-old boy in a dark room.
I think about the system that failed him horrendously. The adults who didn't notice or didn't care. I think about every person in that kid's life who looked the other way or didn't look at all, and the fury that I put away this morning, the cold stone in my chest gets heavier.
The door opens and Stormy comes out. He's pale but steady, a Band-Aid on the inside of his elbow. When he sees me sitting there his face does that thing, that small, careful brightening, that still takes my breath away every time.
"How was it?" I ask. "Was it bad?"
"No, it was fine. Quick."
"Did they use the big needle or the small needle?"
"There's only one size needle, Tex."
"That's what they want you to think. There's a secret drawer of giant needles they save for people who look too tough and big. I'm concerned they're going to pull that drawer out for me."
"You're being ridiculous again."
"I'm aware, but I'm still scared."
They call my name and I go back. At the door, I turn around and mouth the word 'help' at Stormy, just to see him smile. The nurse is kind and she draws my blood in aboutthirty seconds. I don't faint, which I will absolutely be telling Sheila about later. I'm a grown man who handled it with dignity and only minimal sweating.
When I come back out, Stormy is sitting in the chair where I left him. He glances at the bandage on my arm.
"Still standing?" he asks.
"Barely. Touch and go there for a second. I saw a white light. I think I saw my grandma."
Patty tells us results will take three to five business days. They'll call with results or we can check the online portal if we set up an account. I set up both our accounts on my phone while we're standing at the desk because I'm going to be checking that damn portal every six hours for the next five days. We all know it.
