The room is dark, a desk divides us. He sits, looking down upon me. “You have to stop crying and focus,” he exhorts. I feel the tissue against my face. Where it should be soft, a comfort, it is rough against my already-chaffed skin. Too many tears have fallen. I can’t cry and focus at the same time? I am confused. I can think of nothing but his admonishment, and I cease to hear his words. I know I must capture this information, but I can’t. I shouldn’t be crying?
Doesn’t he know I’m going to die?