Our space is small and crowded. A thick taste of sweat in the air makes me nauseous. I sit next to her on an uncomfortable metal bench. Our legs are pressed tightly together and my hand rests between her thighs to comfort her. My fingers are squished firmly in the middle of her crossed legs, about three inches above her knees. Rather than protesting the gesture, she accepts it and leans into me in a way that I have sorely missed.
It’s been a long morning at the police station. Each of us have been questioned repeatedly, first by a nurse asking if any of us have experienced any symptoms such as hot or cold flashes, and vomiting or diarrhea. She checked us for raised blood pressure, dilation of eyes, and then drew a few vials of blood. Of course, we all passed.
I was able to play along. I…
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