Tyrell leans down, brings his lips to my ear.
“This is sooooo gonna hurt,” he says.
He stands.
Dr. Porter is no longer issuing that shiny happy smile. His face is all business. He makes his way across the room, then comes back into view wheeling a mobile stainless-steel cart that looks like something a dentist might use. He’s still wearing his lab coat, only he places a protective plastic shield over his face, as though he’s guarding himself against anything that might fly into it.
I’m trying my hardest to pull and fight against the straps. But even something as simple as blinking seems to take a supreme effort. The television on the wall is still playing Kate’s commercial. I wish it would malfunction somehow. I wish this whole place would somehow catch fire and everyone inside it, inc
