unfair by talking about her in this way. "Forget I said anything," I add eventually. "She's just a precocious student with some unusual views and some odd ways of expressing herself. The world would be a boring place if everyone was the same."
"Well," he replies, "you should still be careful. Remember Joey Hitchings? He worked at one of the colleges a little further upstate. Poor guy was killed in a mugging late one night while he was leaving the campus. His wallet was stolen, but the weirdest thing was, the mugger stabbed him several times in the chest, and once in the groin." He pauses. "Rachel Clarke was one of his students," he adds, and then he stares at me for a moment, before smiling. "Relax. I'm just winding you up. It's a true story, but I'm not suggesting she had anything to do with it. Just..." He laughs nervously as he finishes his bottle of water and gets to his feet. "I've got class. Don't let me wind you up too tight, okay? Deep down, Paula Clarke's probably a perfectly lovely young lady, once you get past the outer layer of vitriolic proto-feminist bullshit. Don't forget, even though I'm a college professor, I'm only one step up from being a total fucking Neanderthal."
"I'm not saying that Paula Clarke is dangerous," I reply firmly. "I'm really not."
"She's just one of those weird students we all get lumbered with from time to time," Harry replies. "Don't worry about it. Just put up with her and be glad when she's gone."
Once he's headed back to class, I find myself lost in thought for a moment. I keep telling myself not to be worried about Paula Clarke, but there was something about her essay that concerned me. She's not like the other students. I'm not saying that she's a little weird or a little freaky; I'm saying that she's deeply, irrevocably different, and in my experience people like that tend to be problematic.
Problematic and, potentially, extremely useful.
Joanna Mason
"Frankly, this looks good," says Dr. Gibbs, staring at my chart as we sit in his cold, quiet office on the first floor of the hospital. "Definitely in the upper range of our expectations. I'd say we're right on track, although obviously there's a way to go."
I wait for him to continue, but something still seems to be bothering him. I've been seeing Dr. Gibbs, on and off, for five years now, and in that time I've come to get a better understanding of the way he approaches good and bad news. Right now, he seems genuinely pleased with the progress I'm making, but there's a sliver of concern in his eyes, as if he can't stop worrying about something. I hate it when he tries to hide things from me.
"How are you dealing with the side effects?" he asks.
"They're getting worse," I reply.
"If they're interfering with your work -"
"I can manage."
"I'm sure you can, but -"
"I can manage," I say firmly. "It's doable. I'd rather go back on the drugs I had last time, though."
"These new ones are much more effective."
"They cloud my mind," I tell him. "It comes and goes, but I'm finding it harder to think sometimes. The old ones didn't affect me like that."
"You need these drugs," he says firmly.
"I don't feel like myself."
"I'm afraid you'll just have to deal with it," he says. "If they're interfering with your work, the answer is not to quit the drugs. The answer is to take a leave of absence while you fight this thing."
I sigh. He's right, but there's no way I'm quitting. My job is the only thing that keeps me sane right now, and if I quit then I'd just be another sick person. I'm not a sick person. I'm just someone who happens to have cancer.
"It's funny," he says after a moment, setting the chart down on his desk. "When people come in here and get an update, they always ask the same thing. They want a number. They want to know their chances of survival over a year, five years, ten, whatever. I tell them I can't do that. I tell them a number would just be plucked out of the air, and it wouldn't mean anything. Still, they
"Well," he replies, "you should still be careful. Remember Joey Hitchings? He worked at one of the colleges a little further upstate. Poor guy was killed in a mugging late one night while he was leaving the campus. His wallet was stolen, but the weirdest thing was, the mugger stabbed him several times in the chest, and once in the groin." He pauses. "Rachel Clarke was one of his students," he adds, and then he stares at me for a moment, before smiling. "Relax. I'm just winding you up. It's a true story, but I'm not suggesting she had anything to do with it. Just..." He laughs nervously as he finishes his bottle of water and gets to his feet. "I've got class. Don't let me wind you up too tight, okay? Deep down, Paula Clarke's probably a perfectly lovely young lady, once you get past the outer layer of vitriolic proto-feminist bullshit. Don't forget, even though I'm a college professor, I'm only one step up from being a total fucking Neanderthal."
"I'm not saying that Paula Clarke is dangerous," I reply firmly. "I'm really not."
"She's just one of those weird students we all get lumbered with from time to time," Harry replies. "Don't worry about it. Just put up with her and be glad when she's gone."
Once he's headed back to class, I find myself lost in thought for a moment. I keep telling myself not to be worried about Paula Clarke, but there was something about her essay that concerned me. She's not like the other students. I'm not saying that she's a little weird or a little freaky; I'm saying that she's deeply, irrevocably different, and in my experience people like that tend to be problematic.
Problematic and, potentially, extremely useful.
Joanna Mason
"Frankly, this looks good," says Dr. Gibbs, staring at my chart as we sit in his cold, quiet office on the first floor of the hospital. "Definitely in the upper range of our expectations. I'd say we're right on track, although obviously there's a way to go."
I wait for him to continue, but something still seems to be bothering him. I've been seeing Dr. Gibbs, on and off, for five years now, and in that time I've come to get a better understanding of the way he approaches good and bad news. Right now, he seems genuinely pleased with the progress I'm making, but there's a sliver of concern in his eyes, as if he can't stop worrying about something. I hate it when he tries to hide things from me.
"How are you dealing with the side effects?" he asks.
"They're getting worse," I reply.
"If they're interfering with your work -"
"I can manage."
"I'm sure you can, but -"
"I can manage," I say firmly. "It's doable. I'd rather go back on the drugs I had last time, though."
"These new ones are much more effective."
"They cloud my mind," I tell him. "It comes and goes, but I'm finding it harder to think sometimes. The old ones didn't affect me like that."
"You need these drugs," he says firmly.
"I don't feel like myself."
"I'm afraid you'll just have to deal with it," he says. "If they're interfering with your work, the answer is not to quit the drugs. The answer is to take a leave of absence while you fight this thing."
I sigh. He's right, but there's no way I'm quitting. My job is the only thing that keeps me sane right now, and if I quit then I'd just be another sick person. I'm not a sick person. I'm just someone who happens to have cancer.
"It's funny," he says after a moment, setting the chart down on his desk. "When people come in here and get an update, they always ask the same thing. They want a number. They want to know their chances of survival over a year, five years, ten, whatever. I tell them I can't do that. I tell them a number would just be plucked out of the air, and it wouldn't mean anything. Still, they
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