Page 2 of Examined

“Can you… are you going to leave the room?” Kirsten asked.

“No, honey,” the nurse said. “But I won’t be staring, don’t worry. I’ll be setting up your initial attentiveness test over here.” She walked over to the other side of the room and busied herself with the projector screen.

Kirsten hurriedly stripped out of her jeans and T-shirt, throwing them in the bin on the table before slipping on the gown. She was just about to reach around and struggle with the two ties when she heard the nurse clear her throat.

“Everything comes off under the gown, sweetie.” Her voice was still soft, but Kirsten thought she could hear a slight edge to it now.

“Can’t I just keep my underwear on?” Kirsten asked. She figured if she had a chance of appealing to anyone here, it would be this nurse.

“It’s up to you, honey. But the doctor won’t be happy when he sees you’ve disobeyed his instructions.” She let that statement hang in the air ominously.

Deciding that this day would only end up being a lot harder for her if she didn’t follow instructions, Kirsten reluctantly reached behind her back to unhook her bra, then even more reluctantly removed her panties and placed both items, along with her shoes and socks, in the bin.

“Smart girl,” the nurse praised cheerfully, coming over to stand behind Kirsten and help her with the gown’s ties. “Now, sit at the table there. This test is quick. It will just flash patterns on the screen, and you’ll select the correct shape for the next piece of the pattern on this form.”

Kirsten wrinkled her brow as she sat at the table and peered down at the test.

“Why do I have to take this?” she asked.

“It helps us assess your ability to remain attentive to tasks that you may find boring, repetitive, or otherwise unpleasant. Things like, say, filing tax forms…”

The pause after that last sentence made clear as surely as an exaggerated wink would have that the nurse knew exactly why Kirsten was here.

“Think of it as the cognitive part of your exam. After this the doctor will give you the physical part of the exam.”

Fantastic. Can’t fucking wait.

Kirsten knew better than to let her annoyance show, but this was all so ridiculous. Why were they examining her at all? All she had done was procrastinate with her tax forms a few times.

“Here we go,” the nurse said, and Kirsten scrambled to pick up her pencil in time for the first pattern to flash on the screen.

There were maybe twenty patterns in all, and they got harder as they progressed. Still, Kirsten felt fairly confident in her answers. When she was done, the nurse collected her paper.

“Alright, dear, follow me to your exam room.”

The nurse led her down the hall in what felt like the longest “walk of shame” she could imagine, passing closed door after door. How big was this place? How many of these “treatments” did they perform each day?

The hallway was eerily quiet, but she thought she could hear muffled cries behind the doors of a couple of the rooms as they walked by. It may have just been in her head, though.

Finally, they entered a room to the right. It looked… fairly normal. An exam table in the middle, cupboards all around, and a sink off to one side. A full-length mirror leaned against one of the walls. There were two chairs near the entrance, and the nurse gestured toward one of them.

“Take a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said before leaving the room.

Kirsten looked around, suddenly feeling cold and way too exposed under the scratchy gown. She found herself wondering what this doctor would be like. Would he be cold and mean like the front-desk lady? Would he be nice like the nurse? She hoped for the latter of course, but she also knew she wasn’t here for particularly… nice reasons.

Why would the court assign non-violent offenders—as she’d heard herself described at her sentencing—to sessions withdoctorsanyway? She wasn’t ill, though she had tried that excuse in a desperate attempt to appease the judge during her hearing. She thought she remembered reading somewhere that the CTFhad the goal of rehabilitating its patients through very specific treatment plans, but she still wasn’t sure why that would need to involve actual medical professionals?—

“Hello, Kirsten. I’m Dr. Harris.”

Kirsten was jarred from her thoughts by the businesslike but not unkind voice of a man who must have just entered the room.

Judging by his attire, he was a doctor.

The hottest doctor who ever lived.

For a moment, she thought this must be some sort of prank. This man wasn’t a physician. Or if he was, he was a physician to the gods. Tall, broad-shouldered, with silky chestnut hair, piercing eyes, and a strong chin. It was as if he’d been taken directly from her naughtiest fantasies.

When he spoke again, his voice remained the perfect mixture of firmness and friendliness.

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