The doctor tightened his lips and exhaled a quiet, passive-aggressive hiss in his throat, then in a scornful monotone said "As part of the study we must rule out any psychosomatic effects. You might exhibit symptoms based only on what we tell you."
Clearly this was a phrase to every test subject he repeats ad nauseam to the point of having nightmares about it, like dreaming about your twelve hour shift working a summer job on the conveyor belt at a cherry orchard, sorting out rotten cherries for two hours, then switching to loading empty cans onto the canning machine for two hours, taking a ten minute break, then stacking full cans on pallets for two hours, then back to the conveyor belt again. The study, like working through cherry harvest season lasted six weeks and counting.
I supposed if I had read the contract all the way through I could have spared the doctor the aggravation. I looked at him and deliberately blinked rapidly and raised my eyebrows, expressing as clearly as I could without saying a word, 'Really? That attitude?' Then I took the pill.
I was escorted to a room with shower nozzles on the walls and ceiling. The door was a water-tight hatch. There was only one drain in the middle of the floor. They took all of my clothes, apparently so the drain would not clog. Luckily the room was warm. Something about the drain got my attention. The room was sterile, except there were about a dozen strands of hair stuck in the drain. As the door was closed and sealed, I reached down and pulled up the strands of hair. I kept pulling and pulling. The strands of hair were at least twelve feet in length.
