Moore enters from the side door. He’s wearing a lab coat, nothing underneath except tailored trousers and a black turtleneck. His hands are gloved, blue nitrile so thin I can see the veins beneath. He picks up one of the scalpels and holds it to the light, admiring the reflection. I remember he likes clean things, not because he wants to keep me from getting infected, but because bloodstains offend his sense of order.
He speaks, and his voice is exactly the same as the one in the TV ads. That calm, reasonable tone, the one that says I am here to help, to protect your family, to fix what’s broken.
“Elliot,” he says. “You know why you’re here.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The strap across my chest is so tight I can barely draw breath.
Moore doesn’t care. He never does.
He sets the scalpel down and leans in, pressing a thumb under my chin and forcing my face up. His thumb is dry and rough, the pressure so precise that I know he’s measuring, not restraining. I stare up at him, trying not to blink. I can’t look away.
He says, “We have to do this until you learn. Every time you fail, we start again.”
I try to think of what I failed. Maybe it was the way I looked at him last time, maybe I said the wrong thing, maybe I just existed in a way that annoyed him. It doesn’t matter, not really. The process is the same either way.
He lets go of my chin, wipes the thumb on a towel, and begins his ritual: rolling up his sleeves, snapping the gloves tighter, checking each tool for flaws.
The sound of metal on metal—the clink as he sets down the scalpel—is loud enough to rattle my teeth.
Moore circles behind me, and I feel his breath against my ear. “You can do better this time,” he says, voice low and almost affectionate. “You will, if you want to leave.”
He moves to the tray and picks up a length of clear tubing, smooth as a snake. He threads it between his fingers, then brings it around to my face. I clamp my jaw but he’s already got the tube against my lips, shoving it past my teeth, so deep it makes my stomach heave.
He tapes it in place, tearing the medical tape with his teeth.
“It’s important to keep you hydrated,” he says, as if that’s a kindness. He presses a button on the wall, and the bag of saline hanging above me starts to drip, one perfect bead at a time.
He takes a step back, folding his arms to admire his work.
I close my eyes.
That’s always a mistake.
Because now there are hands on my legs, cold and deliberate, pulling the jeans down to my knees. He takes his time, rolling the waistband, exposing skin inch by inch. The metal of the chair is icy under my thighs. Goosebumps rise everywhere, but I can’t shiver.
Moore’s fingers are impersonal, as if handling meat from a butcher’s counter.
He murmurs, “I had a dog once. Every time it disobeyed, I’d lock it in the cellar. It learned quickly.” He runs a hand down my calf, almost gentle, then stands and selects the next instrument from the tray.
A needle, long and fine, the tip catching the light. He holds it up for me to see.
“If you move, it will hurt more,” he says.
I don’t move. But I can’t stop the tremor in my feet.
He slides the needle under my skin, just below the kneecap. The pain is instant, a spike of white-hot clarity, but I don’t scream. I can’t, not with the tube in my throat.
He does the other knee. This time, I flinch, just a little, and he clicks his tongue.
“Disappointing,” he says. “But we have time to improve.”
He moves up to my arm, tightens the cuff, and takes a blood sample, filling a vial with slow suction.
I watch the blood swirl, dark and thick, and I wonder if he’s saving it for something.
He sets the vial aside and wipes the inside of my elbow with an alcohol pad. The smell stings my sinuses, makes my eyes water.
He leans in again, so close I can feel the heat of his cheek against mine.
