THREE FACES, CODA

Understanding it's still a new day.

I am a nervous and feral cat in the waiting room, a dog-eared Sports Illustrated the only distraction, and I’ve read it twice. The walls are too close and bare. Where are the plaques, degrees, and certificates with odd and archaic fonts? There's no coffee beyond a solitary cinnamon bun Keurig pod, and my throat tightens. I’m not about that shit.

The door swings open abruptly, and Dr.McConaughy emerges. He is perspiring and buttoning his shirt. He is scrawny, and scrawny men make me suspicious.

How is she, I ask?

She's resting comfortably, but we had to remove two of her faces.

Who the hell gave you permission to do that?

He smiles. His teeth are heavy clouds.

Life’s a mystery, pard, is all he says.

And with that, he turns and disappears into the shrouding fog.