Blood tests, cells run through some alchemical process until their secrets were pasted onto a two-dimensional space for all to see, moving through a hidden system until they resulted in a phone call that brought him down to the hospital somewhere in the Bowery.
Michael hadn’t remembered going in for a blood test, or any other kind of test, and now that he walked into the hospital, past its decrepit doors, he couldn’t remember the phone call that had brought him, only a voice, lone and long and feminine, calling him here. But he walks through the wood-paneled hallways until he comes upon the faceless nurse who stands, myriad arms and legs, knees and elbows bending in the wrong directions, and she tells him that the doctor will see him now.
All those things that are wrong with him, the doubt, the anger, the grief, will be cut away from him in the space of a few dark hours in the backroom. Even those things that he didn’t know were problems, the free will, all those pesky decisions, he’ll be cured of those as well, until there’s nothing left but a clean, calm space in his head that he can take back and share with all those on the outside.