TRANSFORMATION. Fall 2017/Spring 2018 - Page 18

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.”