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the drinking accusation, but I relax a little. I admit: I’m a sucker for the attention of a female, any female. What sixteen-year-old isn’t?
    “Well, not every day,” I say sheepishly.
    “Do you notice if the ringing is louder in one ear?”
    “I … louder in one ear?” It strikes me as an odd question, but she’s the doctor. I concentrate for a moment. “Yeah. I think it is. I think it’s louder in my right ear.”
    “I see,” she says. She scans my entire body again, pausing briefly at the vomit stains on my T-shirt. There’s zero emotion involved. She studies me the Way a butcher might study a spoiled side of beef. Any meat Worth saving on this carcass? she’s asking herself. Or so I imagine. She chews a nail. “I think you should Wait here.”
    “Why?”
    All of a sudden she grins again. “I’d like a doctor to take a look at you,” she answers, a little too cheerfully. “I’ll go see if one’s available.”
    “You’re not a doctor?”
    She laughs. “No, I’m just an intern. Don’t Worry!”
    Until she brought it up, I Wasn’t Worried. Now I feel a shudder of fear creeping up my spine. “Why should I Worry?”
    “You shouldn’t.”
    “Okay.”
    “How old are you?” she asks.
    “Sixteen,” I tell her.
    Her smile falters.
    “What?” I say, alarmed. “Is that a problem?”
    She forces another laugh, peering through the sunlight toward a bank of elevators. “Of course not. Listen, Why don’t you call one or both of your parents and tell them to meet you here? I’ll be right back. Okay?”
    Alarm turns to full-fledged panic. “My parents? Why do I have to call them? They’re on a business trip. What’s going on? I really—”
    “Shhh,” she Whispers. She casts a furtive glance back toward the security guard, then lays a hand on my shoulder and puts another phony smile on her face. “If We’re going to conduct any kind of examination procedure, We need the consent of a parent or guardian. You know, for X-rays and stuff. Or maybe minor surgery. Okay?”
    Minor surgery? What are you, nuts? No! It’s not okay! Not in the least!
    That’s What I’d like to tell her. But I’m too frightened. Because that phrase, that one phrase, is stuck in my brain for all time. I’m talking about the phrase that instantly conjures a thousand different visions of twisted hospital horror movies and sadistic torture and crimes against humanity—the crimes that Rachel Works so hard to prevent as a member of our school’s chapter of Amnesty International, that go Way beyond minor surgery… .
    “Examination procedure.”
    Everyone knows about phrases like that. Evil geniuses use phrases like that. Maniacal dictators. Movie villains. They use them to cover up awful truths.
    “I’ll be right back,” the intern is saying.
    “Huh? No! Where are you going?”
    “To find a doctor.” She hurries toward the elevators. “We might as Well rule some things out, right? I’ll be right back. Call your parents, okay, sweetheart?”

The Creeps
    No Way am I Waiting around for her to find a doctor.
    For one thing, hospitals give me the creeps. Not just because “examination procedures” are performed here and “things” need to be “ruled out.” It’s the Whole atmosphere: the blinding sunlight, the stale air, the miserable patients With the massive bandages on their arms (because blood has just been drawn)— not to mention that every single bench and cafeteria and pediatric Wing is “Memorial” this and “In Honor of” that, so there’s this unseen shroud of death hanging over the Whole place—
    Wait.
    For no reason Whatsoever, I suddenly realize Why the security guard Was such a jerk to me. Mark’s father just got the job as an administrator here. So he hasn’t started. His name isn’t in the computer. He’s not an employee yet.
    Which means he can’t help me.
    But that’s not even the issue. The real issue is that even if I did call my parents (Which I have no intention of doing),