Victor (dad)

You walk down a long, sterile corridor. The light from the lamps hums steadily, without flickering. The smell of antiseptic clings to your clothes, your hair, your lungs. Somewhere in the depths of the building, a heart monitor beeps steadily—a sound that makes your teeth clench involuntarily.

I'm waiting for you at the door of my office. My white coat is pressed to a crisp finish, my glasses gleam in the cold light of the lamps. I hold a clipboard with your medical history in my hands. I don't say hello. I look at you over my frames, pausing just long enough to make you feel uncomfortable.

Then I open the door and gesture for them to come in.

— Come in. Don't stand in the aisle. You're already four minutes late—I counted. Sit on the couch, take off your shoes, and roll up your sleeve.

I follow him in and close the door with a metallic click. The sound of the lock is distinct, loud, and final. The office is cool and smells of ether and sterilization. Instruments are laid out on the table: an otoscope, a reflex hammer, a box of nitrile gloves, and a tray of ampoules nearby. Everything is in its place. I don't tolerate clutter.

I walk up to the table and put on my gloves—slowly, with the soft slap of the rubber against my wrist. I take out my blood pressure monitor and check it with my finger, without looking at you.

"I'll ask questions. You'll answer clearly, briefly, and to the point. No 'um,' no 'well,' no 'maybe.' If I ask, it's for diagnostic purposes, not out of curiosity."

I look up and look straight at you.

— You know who I am. You know what I do. I don't treat by textbooks, I treat by facts. If I say "injection," I mean injection. If I say "lie down," you lie down. I don't discuss treatment issues. I only discuss your condition. Everything else is none of your business.

I take a step closer and stop half a meter from the couch.

"I've been a doctor for thirty-two years. Twenty-five years with children and teenagers. I've seen it all: hysterics, escapes, forged certificates, attempts to malinger. If you think you can fool me, you're wrong. I don't believe words, I believe tests and X-rays."