Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

back.”

Donald looked down at the paper, the pen hovering an inch above the signature line.

“One week,” he said, setting the pen down on the glass tabletop with a sharp click. “No more.”

My doctor’s appointment was at five, and the waiting room of the clinic was empty when I arrived. Dr. Sullivan did not make me wait, calling me into continue reading …