Page 166 of Wrath

"Well, you haven't eaten."

"I don't make the rules, Mom."

She's quiet for the rest of the drive. After I sign in, she sits beside me with a magazine. When I'm called back, she says, "I'm going to gas up the car and get some snacks for you. I'll be back before you're finished."

"Okay. Bye."

She never really says bye. Since what happened on the bus—since she found out for sure about me—she hates being near me.

I think as I follow the nurse down the long hall how it's funny that these people here have no idea what happened to me. And they never will. No one ever will. I get that old, familiar sinking feeling in my stomach. Hey, at least it’s better than the clawing one.

It's the same old song and dance each time. This time, the counselor asks me if I'm okay doing it.

"Yeah. How many more now?"

"After this, I believe it will be four more sessions."

I shrug. "Let’s just get it over with."

Since I'm outpatient, I wear my own clothes. I'm getting up onto the bed when I look at my elbow.

MILLER.

Why does it fill me with so much dread? I look down at the spot where the name was written last time. There's just a gray smudge now.

MILLER.

"Is there a chance that every time I do this now, I might forget more and more?" I can’t help asking.

What if I forget how to play football?

That leads to a ten-plus-minute talk with Dr. Katz, which basically yields the information: almost definitely not.

He leaves, and the nurse is back. "Do you know why I had the word 'MILLER' on my arm before?” I ask. “Like, before last time?"

She frowns. "No, I don't think we knew. You didn't tell us." She smiles like she's sorry.

I pull up my shirt and show her the tat over my pec. "What about this?"

She frowns. "I've seen it before, when we're attaching leads. Which—speaking of—why don't you leave your shirt up. I'll get all that hooked up."

I don't like it when they touch me. Usually it's okay, but this time my eyes throb and my throat tightens. I get the clawing feeling again. Almost like I lost my keys or something. Like I lost something important, I've been looking, and I can't find it. Like I’ve been looking for a few days straight. It's like...an agitation thing.

I breathe deeper.

"Are you having anxiety, Christopher?"

"Ezra."

"What?"

"I go by Ezra now." I remember I decided that before I moved to Dad’s, and when I looked online the other day, all my stats were under the name Ezra Masters.

"That's your middle name?" She frowns.

"No. It's my first name. It’s in my chart."

"Okay, Ezra. It’s a nice name.”

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