“You’ve got to do something else to help improve her balance,” says the doctor as he makes to stitch up my arm. In the room’s harsh light his watch glints and gleams, throwing up spangles, and the silver shimmer in his hand is a tiny, terrible dagger. “The karate she’s taking is good, but it looks like it’s not quite enough.”
Mom shoots Dad a victorious glance, her nose scrunched, her mouth a tight line. “It’s too masculine anyway,” she huffs. Smoothing her hand down my shoulder, she adds, “I know what we’ll do.”
Suddenly there is something in my world scarier than the doctor’s needle.