Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

dropping further as the inner clinic door opened.

The nurse called my name before I could answer, her clipboard clattering against the heavy wooden frame.

We walked down the narrow hallway, the green linoleum cold beneath my thin-soled shoes.

Dr. Clara Sullivan sat behind her mahogany desk, her hands folded neatly on the dark wood. She had known my father,continue reading …