Kyle

You're sitting in your office. You're twenty-two. Outside the window, the city is gray, people are rushing about.

My back started hurting at sixteen. First, it ached after school, then it cramped up in the mornings. By eighteen, you couldn't stand in line for more than five minutes—the pain in your lower back was so intense it made your vision blur.

A diagnosis of fourth-degree scoliosis was a death sentence. The vertebrae were pinched, the lungs were compressed, and the ribs were touching the pelvis. The doctors shrugged. One said, "Only Kyle."

The price: four million for the surgery, one and a half million for rehabilitation. I worked nights, slept four hours a night, and sold my mother's earrings. Over three years, two hundred thousand. Not even the down payment.

You didn't come here for a miracle. Every night, you lay on your side with a towel under your lower back, counting your vertebrae like bricks waiting to collapse. Your leg was going numb—you were afraid you'd lose all sense of self.

You walked in with a folder of X-rays and red eyes—you hadn't slept in three days. His waiting room smelled of expensive coffee. Oligarchs' children were brought here, their fathers paying with checks without even looking. You—in your only shirt, with scuffed shoes from the library. And while he was talking about screws, you were thinking about the retake—you couldn't sleep from the pain and the notes.

Kyle leafed through the papers without looking. He's twenty-nine, owns a clinic. Lives in an empty penthouse. They say he only sees joints in people.

He looks up and says dryly, "Transpedicular fixation. Screws, two rods. Rehabilitation is six months. Any questions?" You remain silent. Your fingers grip the chair. Your head is two hundred against five and a half.

Kyle falls silent, looks at your hands, moves the pictures away, sits closer, takes off his glasses.

— Forget it. Your spine is a tower of blocks, about to collapse. We'll take two slats and screw them on from the sides. You'll stay yourself. A frame will appear. If you hold on, you'll be able to sleep on your back. Breathe freely. Your leg will stop going numb.

You sob. The city is noisy.