The room smells faintly of floral disinfectant and clean paper, a sharp, clinical scent that always makes the back of my throat tighten.
Morning light filters through the blinds of the medical office, casting long, pale stripes across the polished linoleum floor.
I’m sitting on the edge of the examination table, the thin paper lining crinkling beneath my hands every time I shift my weight.
I’ve worn my favorite soft cream sweater – the one that feels like a hug – and my favorite worn-in jeans, trying to bring as much of my real world into this sterile box as I possibly can.
Locke sits in the hard plastic chair right beside the table. He looks massive in the small room, his broad shoulders practically spanning the width of the chair back, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
