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Lena

M y jaw feels like it’s been locked in a vice and then pried open with a crowbar. I wake up with the taste of gauze in my mouth and the smell of antiseptic in my sinuses, like whatever they gave me is still clawing its way out. The apartment is dim. My curtains are drawn. There’s a plastic bag on the counter full of soft food—applesauce, strawberry Jell-O, something in a glass jar that looks like blended soup. I don’t remember who put it there.

I remember the man seizing. I remember the look on the nurse’s face—professional, resigned, like she’d seen it before. I remember someone saying the word compliance . And then…nothing.

Obviously, I got home somehow. They must have given me something—drugs— finally, that worked. I guess that’s why I can’t string the hours together.

I sit up too fast and the world tilts, slow and syrupy. My mouth throbs. I try not to swallow too hard, afraid it might undo the stitches. When I can finally stand, my knees shake so badly, I have to catch myself on the edge of the counter, next to the Jell-O.

I feel sick, and not just because of the stitches. I let them talk me into it. That’s what bothers me. How stupid I am. I wasn’t drugged. I wasn’t forced. I smiled. I nodded. I made some dumb joke about corporate dentistry, and Stewy laughed like I’d done something impressive. Andra called it “just a little maintenance,” like I was overdue for an oil change.

And I went along with it—because I wanted to believe it wasn’t a big deal. I believed her. That’s the part that makes me want to spit blood.

I always believe people like her—people who act like they’re doing you a favor while they shove the scalpel deeper. I told myself it was no big deal and I don’t even know why. Of course, it was going to be a big deal. I was having surgery for no good reason.

I guess I wanted what they said to be true.

I should have said no. That’s the part I can’t stop chewing on.

I sit with that for a while.

Then—

There’s a knock at the door. Three short taps. Not frantic. Just certain.

I shuffle over, peer through the peephole. Andra.

No lipstick, no heels. Sneakers and a Shergar hoodie like she’s here off the clock. She’s holding a tote bag and smiling like she’s just dropped by with banana bread. I crack the door but don’t open it.

“I brought broth,” she says. “Figured you might not be up for solids yet.”

“I’m good.”

“I’ll just set it inside. I won’t stay.”

I open the door an inch. That’s all she needs. She nudges it wider with her elbow, slips through, and sets the bag on my counter like she lives here.

She glances around. “Nice place. Love the finish on the cabinets.”

I don’t answer.

“I wanted to check on you. These things can be disorienting.”

“I’m fine.”

“What happened yesterday…” She lowers her voice. “It was very unfortunate. No one could’ve predicted it.”

“What? You mean the man that died?”

She tilts her head. “That’s not the language we’ve been using.”

My mouth pulses. I don’t look away.

“I’m not here to reprimand you,” she says. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not…confused about what happened.”

“I’m not confused.”

Andra nods slowly, like she’s proud of me. “Great. That’s great. Because I’d hate for this to get…you know—I’d hate for it to get blown out of proportion. You haven’t mentioned anything to anyone, right?”

I give her the best dead stare I can manage. I can barely stand up straight.

“I mean, especially about the intake process. We’re all hands-on here, so if you helped the patient fill out his forms, or had a conversation with him before the procedure—it’s not a big deal.”

“But if I did ,” I say, “then what?”

Andra’s smile falters for just a second. “Then nothing. As long as it stays internal. You did nothing wrong, Lena. I mean, not technically . I just want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

I swallow. “How often does that happen?”

Her brow twitches. “What do you mean?”

“People dying. In the middle of a trial. How common is that?”

Andra exhales through her nose, all professional composure. “Well, that’s why we call it a trial. To collect data. To see what happens when we move from theory to practice. Outliers are…expected.”

“That’s your answer?”

“That’s the work.”

She reaches for my arm, pats it gently. “We’re a team. And sometimes the hard days prove that more than the easy ones.”

I need her out of my space before I say something I can’t walk back. Before I admit how much of this I understood and still went along with. Before I throw up—either from the drugs or from the fact that she’s standing here trying to sell me a body count like it’s part of the onboarding packet.

I need her gone so I can breathe without performing. So I can sit with the part of me that said yes.

Because it wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t coercion. It was me, nodding, smiling, playing along. And now a man is dead. And she’s in my kitchen telling me it’s just data.

“I’d like you to go,” I say. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Of course.” She grabs her empty bag and heads for the door.

At the threshold, she pauses. “Take your meds. The partners are watching your recovery closely. We’ll see you soon.”

She lets herself out. Doesn’t close the door all the way.

I lock it behind her.

I sit on the floor and open the Jell-O. The first bite is too sweet. The second makes my jaw ache. I finish half of it anyway, because quitting halfway through things is how I got here.

Somewhere between the moment that man’s body went still and this wobbly spoonful of chemicals, something cracked open. Not a scream. Not a warning.

Just the sound of something sliding into place.

And I know I have to fix this.