Late one evening, the ghosts of my parents’ era rushed into the hospital’s emergency room. Ambulances delivered wounded rebels. They had just clashed with the National Guard in the city’s outskirts. Dr. Ramon had assigned internist Heather to work with me. Taller and skinnier than me with bright red-colored pigtails, Heather was the most neurotic person I had met at the hospital, if not in the city. Constantly fidgeting and hopping around like an anorexic rabbit in heat, she was the complete opposite of my college friend Tyranny who kept her feelings under control with the mood adjustor’s assistance. Too emotional, especially for a physician treating virus-infected patients, Heather simply did not fit into post-plague culture. I suspected that she was mixing stimulants with ultra-caffeinat
