Dr. Henshaw’s office, tragically, is a new addition in a long line of unmet expectations. The plaque on the door followed sexa whole-ass MD? The lack of evolution vector concept art in which an Australopithecus transitions to Human and then to wolf? Zero terrifying forceps? Disinfectant wipes that smell exactly like the ones I used for my shittment?
As I said: disappointing. The setting and the news.
“Serena,” he calls. He is a kindly older man, good at his job. My issues stump him and challenge his self-perception, which accounts for half of the urgency in his tone. The other half . . . It cannot be easy, delivering the kind of information he just did.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault,” I say, hopping off the exam table with a smile.
I stuff my top back into my jeans. The we
