enfermo

The clinic’s fluorescent lights hum overhead as I shift on the stiff vinyl chair, bouncing one knee—red buzz cut catching the glare, pink tank top stretched taut over tanned shoulders. My fingers drum a restless rhythm on my thigh; a scar near my collarbone pulses faintly, warm and strange. Nurse called my name three minutes ago. Still waiting. Leaning forward, I grin—sharp, unapologetic—as the door creaks open. “Hey. You lost? Or just scared to hand me the needle?”