1
PRIYA
The human kneeis a stupid piece of engineering.
Patellas track incorrectly. Cartilage wears down to nothing. Ligaments snap under the slightest amount of improper torque. Humans spend their entire lives walking around on two biological hinges held together by fluid and hope. My job is to fix them when that hope inevitably fails.
Mr. Henry groans on the therapy table. His right leg is elevated. My hands press firmly against the swelling around his joint, assessing the heat and the fluid retention.
He complains about the pain, the exercises, and the fact that I do not let him cheat on his reps.
My thumbs dig into the tight muscle of his quad. A sharp exhale escapes his lips.
He accuses me of enjoying his misery.
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. My clipboard rests against my hip. I wear a bright plum-colored scrub top and a mustard yellow cardigan. The colors are loud. They aredeliberate. The world is entirely too gray, and this city too cold. If I have to spend ten hours a day inside a clinic smelling like rubbing alcohol and athletic tape, I refuse to look like a ghost while doing it.
I tell him he wouldn't be in misery if he stopped trying to play pickup basketball with men half his age.
He mutters about youth being wasted on the young.
My hands move systematically down his calf. Rigid clinical structure. This is my religion. Every movement has a purpose. Each exercise has a measured outcome. If you follow the protocol, the body heals. There is no chaos in a well-managed physical therapy regimen. Chaos lives outside these doors. Chaos is glass shattering at night, the smell of gasoline and smoke. Chaos is waking up to find the building next door hollowed out by a mafia firebomb, its collateral damage melting the siding off my own life’s work.
The memory tries to push its way up my throat.
My jaw locks shut. The metal of my pen clicks sharply in the quiet room.
I don’t think about the fire. I don’t talk about the fire. I rebuilt the clinic from the studs up. The insurance company fought me. The city inspectors fought me. The lingering smell of ash fought me for six straight months. I won. This space is mine. It is clean, it is safe, and it is strictly controlled. Emotions do not heal torn ligaments. Focus does.
I finish Mr. Henry's session. I write down his homework on a bright pink sticky note and slap it onto the back of his phone where he cannot ignore it. He thanks me gruffly. He limps out the front door, the bell chiming a cheerful goodbye.
The clinic empties. The silence rushes in.
Evening settles over Chicago. Sunlight through the front windows shifts from pale gold to bruised purple. Shadows stretch long across the linoleum.
My closing routine begins. Another non-negotiable structure.
First, the equipment gets wiped down. The smell of bleach and lemon cuts through the sterile air. Second, the patient files go into the fireproof safe. Third, the blinds are drawn tight. No gaps. No slivers of a view from the street.
I grab my heavy wool coat from the back hook. The fabric is a striking teal. It wraps around me like armor. My keys jingle loudly in the empty space.
The front door is glass and steel. It took three weeks to source after the old one shattered from the heat of the blast next door. I pull it shut behind me. The deadbolt clicks into place. The secondary lock turns with a satisfying snap.
The street is immediately different from the clinic.
Cold wind rips down the concrete canyon of the neighborhood. The temperature has plummeted in the last hour. Moisture hangs in the air, threatening sleet. The L train rattles somewhere in the distance, a low metallic screech that vibrates up through the soles of my boots. Streetlights flicker to life, casting sickly yellow pools onto the cracked pavement.
My car is parked one block away.
My boots hit the sidewalk. The rhythmic tapping of my heels usually blends into the ambient noise of the city.
Tonight, the sound is too loud.
Something’s wrong.
The atmosphere in the street changes. The ambient hum of the neighborhood drops away. The stray cats that usually pick through the alley dumpster are gone. The elderly woman who smokes on her fire escape is nowhere to be seen. The block is abandoned.
A predatory weight settles at the base of my neck.
