The holding room smells like disinfectant and wet concrete, rain dragged in on boots and coats and forgotten umbrellas.
The lights overhead buzz faintly, too bright, too white, like they're trying to bleach thought itself out of my head.
The bed beneath me is narrow and stiff, the paper crinkling every time I move, announcing even the smallest shift of my body.
"Can you just stop!? I don't need the MRI," I tell this guy.
This minion's name is Boris, I think. He sits there making a face, constantly looking at his handset.
Maybe he's hoping someone calls him so he can get away from me.
He doesn't look up right away.
His shoulders are hunched forward, massive frame squeezed into a chair clearly designed for someone half his size.
His knee bounces once, heavy boot tapping against the linoleum.
"Miss Spencer, please," he says.
It's almost cute.
He's like a boulder, all bulk and muscle, and yet he sounds one breath away from whining.
