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“They’re annoying, but they don’t prevent me from working. And so far, ibuprofen and naproxen have worked.”
“Speaking of work, what line of work are you in?”
“I’m a criminal attorney.” Another small deviation from the truth, but close enough.
“How would you rate your stress levels?”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Excessive? Not sure what scale to use.”
She gave him a smile back. “Excessive paints a picture.”
She continued questioning for another few minutes about his daily habits, whether he exercised, ate healthily, had any other complaints or issues, and then she zoomed in on his memory issues, asking for specific details.
When she was done, she leaned back in her chair. “I can see why these symptoms would concern you, Mr. Dwyer. Do you have any family history of neurological disorders?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Dwyer. This doesn’t sound like a neurological problem but more a psychological one. Your symptoms do not match any classic neurological disorder, and I can’t detect a pattern that would fit even more unusual ones. But I’d still like to do an MRI to rule anything out.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“The scan itself takes about thirty minutes, but I want to do one with contrast, which means the radiologist will administer a contrast solution through IV, which will take a while to set up.”
“We came prepared to spend several hours here.”
“Good. I’ll bring you to the MRI waiting room, and someone will be with you shortly to explain the procedure in more detail and go over all the steps with you.”
The next hour passed in a blur. There were papers to be signed and instructions to go over. He was led to a different room and asked to change into a hospital gown. The IV was hooked up and the contrast solution administered, and then he had to wait until that had taken effect. Finally, he was brought into the room with the MRI machine, which was a massive monster.
The technician put a head coil around his head, immobilizing him to the examination bed. She carefully put in earplugs and double-checked his position. Classical music—he’d been able to give his preferences—streamed through the earplugs, and he took a deep breath as the bed slid into the MRI machine. He’d been told it would make a racket at first, so he focused on Bach’s Mass in B Minor and tried to forget about everything else.
The machine hummed to life, a low growl that quickly crescendoed into a steady drone. Roman’s heart pounded against his ribcage, thumping an erratic rhythm that mocked the calm he feigned, but after some deep breathing in and out, it slowed.
Thirty minutes was a long time when you had to lie completely still inside a machine. Thank fuck, he wasn’t in the least bit claustrophobic. When it was finally done, he dressed again and returned to the waiting room, where Dr. Snyder would come get him once she had the results.
The moment he stepped through the door, Wander met his gaze. A silent conversation passed between them—nervous energy, questioning looks. They didn’t need words, not really. Together, they sat in a hushed purgatory of glossy magazines and muted news on the TV. Roman’s leg bounced a staccato rhythm that betrayed his composure.
“Mr. Dwyer?”
It had seemed like an eternity before Dr. Snyder called his name again. Wander and Roman rose to their feet and followed the neurologist, the click of Roman’s polished shoes against the sterile floor echoing his pounding heart.
“Take a seat,” the doctor said as she flicked on the monitor. The screen flickered to life, revealing images of Roman’s brain, a digital landscape of shadows and light that meant nothing to him.
She tapped the screen with a blunt fingernail. “Your scan is completely normal.”
Five words, simple and direct, but a wave of relief coursed through him so intensely that Roman wavered for a moment.
“No abnormalities were detected that explain your issues, which suggests, as I expected, that they are not neurological in their cause. I suspect the high stress levels in your job are getting to you, Mr. Dwyer, and I urge you to make significant lifestyle changes.”
“Changes,” Roman repeated.
“Healthy diet, regular exercise.” As if prescribing a regimen could turn the downward spiral Roman’s life was in ever since he’d taken on the case against Whitman. “A reduction of hours, if possible, and sufficient sleep. They may sound like medical clichés, like a Band-Aid for a much bigger problem, but those changes combined can make a world of difference.”
As simple as her directives were, they felt like an unattainable luxury. His existence was defined by the relentless tick of the clock and the endless pursuit of justice. Caseloads, depositions, trials—all demanding his attention, all feeding the beast of stress that gnawed at his sanity, even before the threats and strange events had begun.
No, the bizarre occurrences might not have been his imagination, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take her words to heart. He was in the fight of his life—the fight for his life—and this was a marathon, not a sprint. If he didn’t take care of himself, the alternative was a slow unraveling, strands of self-preservation fraying until nothing remained.
“Thank you, Dr. Snyder. I promise I will take your advice to heart.”
