The Doctor
David Ferranti
Elevation, Julie Joo '19
“He was a lucky one,” the doctor said. “The blade was made
of soft stone, and crumbled on impact. There were many small
pieces, but none too deep. The patient was stable, so I had the
time to remove them all.” He held up a small fragment of stone,
no bigger than a fingernail. Its grey dullness somehow still re-
flected the dim light in the outer medical ward.
Malcolm nodded. Small pieces, he jotted down on the electronic
pad. Remove if the patient is otherwise stable.
“You needn’t write down everything I say,” the doctor said.
“I want my account to be as clear and accurate as possible,”
Malcolm said.
“Course you do,” the doctor chuckled. “But if you want that,
you shouldn’t be talking to me. Go talk to the prisoners. They
may not be clear, but they will certainly be accurate. I’ve seen
you in the cafeteria, eating with the guards and supervisors. Go
16 Spring 2018
talk to the prisoners.”
“I’ve tried that,” Malcolm said disdainfully. “They don’t want
to talk.”
The doctor laughed this time, a full-throated laugh. “Would
you? If some reporter came up to you from Earth to the soulless
place where you were going to spend the rest of your life, would
you talk?”
Malcolm sniffed. “Half of them don’t even seem to be able to
talk.”
“You’re referring to Yellowtooth?” The doctor began to wash
his hands at the sink. “Forty-odd years without a glimpse of
Earth will do that to you. He used to talk. Then shriek. Now he
mostly stays quiet.”