Storms

I don't know why, for sure, this just touched me.
Work with no pay equals horrible moral. I'm not looking forward to working with my fellow employees. Should declare a moratorium on all such talk.
It's the polite that gets me. So much I don't understand. So much that feels uncomfortable. So much that I am curious about that I DO NOT WANT TO BE CURIOUS ABOUT.
A lot that I am happy about. A lot that I feel good about.

Therapy 108

Dr. Ryelle responds, "And might I remind you, sir, what is at stake with Ms. Evan's precarious hold on life itself? She is holding on with tooth and nail to what we call sanity, as it is. A more aggressive simulation could kill her at worst and drive her insane at best. Especially after what she's been through, I am appalled that you would even suggest it. Sir." 

She turns to walk away to check an instrument that is beeping incessantly. Her white surgical coat floats in the air like a magician's cape. A strong hand grabs her wrist, hard enough to bruise. She winces and looks up at the man accosting her. 

He pulls her in close enough that she can smell the coffee on his breath. Her nose wrinkles. 

"You WILL do it or we will find someone who can extract the information that we need. Probably, not as "nicely" as you have been. You have 2 days, doctor."

He releases her wrist and she automatically cradles it to her chest. Before she can throw another question or even insult, the door to the lab is slamming shut.

She takes a deep breath and returns to her patients side. She looks down at the almost serene face of Evan. Without all of the wires it would look like she is just sleeping and not held in a forced coma.