On the bright side, it was Thursday. “Gerard, yes, hi, hello,” said Mrs. Dwyer, the nurse’s assistant sanctioned to hand over the Perlman headpiece and the big green pill and the smaller red one that activates the green one.
“How was the week?” she asked.
“Same,” I said.
“Oh, gosh, sorry,” she said.
In Treatment Room 4, she checked with the caliper to make sure the pressure foot of the Perlman was seated correctly.
It was.
She seemed a little nervous today.
“Green first,” she said. “I know you know that.”
I took the green.
“Good,” she said. “Now the red. Then the agua.”
I took the red. Drank the water from its pre-measured vial.
“Sit, wait, enjoy,” she said. “May this bring you healing.”
“Thanks,” I said.
By law she had to stand there waiting until it kicked in.
“Everybody’s got a right,” she said absently.
“For sure,” I said, anxious as always that this time it wouldn’t work.
“To feel O.K.,” she said, “in this crazy old—wope. There it is. Here it comes, yes?”
Here it came, yes.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة June 12, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة June 12, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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