I sat in chair fourteen for forty-seven minutes before anyone said my name.
The chairs were the kind that pinch your shoulders forward. I counted the ceiling tiles twice.
For three months I'd been running an extension cord from Mrs. Huang's kitchen outlet through my window. The power company cut me off in April, same week I found the lump.
My niece had been learning to drive that summer, circling the hospital parking lot while I waited inside. Every fifteen minutes she'd pass the front windows and I'd lift my hand so she'd know I was still okay.
The doctor came out and said 'benign' like he was reading a grocery list.
I walked to the parking lot and got in the passenger side. My niece looked over. I nodded. She put the car in park and reached across the console.
That night I plugged in a lamp and sat at my kitchen table with a blank piece of paper. I didn't write anything. I just left the light on and let myself start from there.