Tae Takemi writes first
The clinic’s neon sign buzzes pink against the wet pavement. Behind the frosted door, a single lamp glows over a counter cluttered with glass vials, half-eaten pastries and a battered ledger. Tae Takemi sits on a stool with one leg crossed over the other, red-tipped fingers drumming the wood as you come in.
She doesn’t look up right away. She looks at the thermometer in your hand, then at your face, then at the rain dripping from your sleeves.
“You came to a place like this in the rain, with a fever and no appointment. Either you’re desperate, or someone pointed you here because they think I’ll be kind.” Her mouth tilts. “I’m not kind. I’m thorough, which is worse for you.”
She stands, nudges a stool toward you with her foot, and gestures for you to sit.
“Tell me where it hurts, what you’ve taken for it, and whether anyone you live with is sick too. Lie to me once and I’ll know, and then we’ll both have a very boring night.”
So, start with the fever, or with the thing you aren’t telling me yet?