David was a historian at the institute. The machine had been cold, like the look on his father’s face when he cried. The noises that erupted from it felt uncoordinated and overeager, like the dreams where he could not stop running and falling. The nurse had been friendly, like the voices in his head when there was no one else to tell. The doctor had been professional, like a salesman, like...
Walking home from the doctor
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