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I knock my fist into his, the motion anticlimactic.

Mackenzie tucks his hand into his pocket. “Good luck with everything tonight. Hope whoever it is you’re meeting is okay.”

I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from commenting back, That makes two of us. Instead, I watch him as he walks backward, waiting until I’m inside the front doors before turning around with one last wave.

• • •

I wind up using my extra fifteen minutes to make coffee in the tiny machine we keep in the office for days when we’re too lazy to walk downstairs to Tim Hortons.

“Two cream, two sugar.” I hand Phillip a steaming mug when he steps out of the elevator at one fifty-five. Unlike me, Phillip is dressed as if he is ready for work in a pressed dress shirt and chinos.

He takes the coffee and nods his head to follow him down the hall, not bothering to wait for me as he pushes open the double doors to the MRI room.

There’s a tired-looking nurse behind the glass. She gives Phillip a curt nod when they make eye contact, but her eyes skim right over me. She either doesn’t recognize me or doesn’t care.

I’ve been in the MRI room many times. It’s a simple, clinical space with white floors and white walls, save for the far wall, which is made of a Plexiglas coated in copper wire, which protects the control room on the other side from the magnetic fields of the MRI machine.

Phillip picks up a hospital gown and hands it to me. “You can change in there.” He points at the door that I know leads into a small examination room.

“I came dressed,” I counter, taking off my hoodie to reveal the plain U of T shirt underneath. “No jewelry or metal of any kind.” I hold up my hands as if to show supporting evidence. “I promise.”

Phillip sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine, get in.”

I lie down on top of the table, familiar enough with the process that I don’t require direction.

We conducted more than fifty MRI scans in the first four months of our research. Each patient had been diagnosed with some form of addiction ranging from alcohol to heroin, opioids to porn. Our study was focused on the frontal cortex—the part of the brain that controls logical thinking, goal setting, planning, and self-control—and we wanted to determine if the changes incurred during extended periods of abuse could be reversed with an intensive rehabilitation program supported by the CAMH outpatient program.

However, lying on the narrow table now is a very different experience, especially as Phillip slides me in and I’m forced to lie completely still, suddenly noticing itchy spots on my scalp and nose and under my armpit that were not there a moment ago, when scratching was an option.

The machine kicks up with a whirling sound, then begins to bang with an even metallic thunk. The first two minutes are excruciating. I want out. I want quiet. I want to be cozied up under the covers in my own bed.

Eventually, I get used to the noise. The rhythm becomes relaxing even.

When the machine finally goes quiet, I am considering asking Phillip if he can just bring me a blanket and tuck me in right here, but he pulls the table back out with practiced efficiency. When I finally sit up, he meets my eyes with a stoic gaze and a very clinical “Come.”

I feel short of breath as I follow him into the control room. The nurse is gone, but on the screen are two black-and-white images—my brain.

“Take a look for yourself,” Phillip says, standing aside. My eyes skim over the screen, once then twice, looking for any signs that things are not right. I find nothing.

“What is it?” I ask Phillip, still not sure what he saw that I didn’t.

“You’re fine,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Then why did you say it like that? You made it seem like you saw something.”

Phillip shakes his head. “I simply told you to come and see your results for yourself. This is a good learning opportunity. Sometimes patients are convinced they have a physical ailment, but the science proves the contrary.”

I scan the screen one last time. “There’s really nothing wrong with me?”

Phillip shakes his head, “I never said that, but yes, your brain looks fine.” He squints his eyes and stares at me. “If you’re still concerned, we could do some bloodwork. It will take a few weeks to get the results back as I’ll have to submit it with my next round of test samples, but if the issue is due to an ingested substance, it would—”

“It’s fine,” I cut him off. “It’s probably just my brain balancing too many things at once.”

Phillip nods. “A logical explanation.”

I grab my purse and pull on my hoodie, then use my app to call an Uber.

“Thanks again, Phillip,” I say to him as he wastes no time in pulling on his coat.