The Boy He Called a Defect
I sat in the cold reception area of General Hospital on a Tuesday morning, flipping through a magazine I wasn’t really reading. The air had that particular hospital quality, antiseptic and recycled, the kind that makes time feel slower than it is. I was waiting for Dante to finish a consultation so we could have lunch together, something we tried to do every few weeks now that he worked here and I finally had time to sit still.
Then the automatic doors slid open, and my blood went cold.
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