The Doctor's Orders

The drive back from the courthouse was a blur of gray slush and brake lights. Arthur had essentially promised to steal Leo if I kept pushing against the drywall.

I pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching over the iced gravel. The Tudor house loomed, a fortress of brick and dark timber. It didn't look like a sanctuary. It looked like a very large, very expensive cage.

I unlocked the front door, dropping my keys into the silver bowl on the credenza.

The scent of peppermint and sterile rubbing alcohol hit me before I saw him.

Harrison was sitting at the kitchen island, perfectly still, nursing a cup of tea. He wore a cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, looking every inch the benevolent, successful doctor. He didn't look up from his phone when I walked in.

"Arthur called," Harrison said, his voice a low, soothing hum. "He said you seemed agitated during your meeting. Unfocused."

I gripped the edge of the granite counter. "I wasn't agitated. I was angry. He threatened to take Leo."

Harrison finally looked up, his expression a mask of manufactured empathy. "He didn't threaten, El. He expressed a valid concern. Your heart rate data confirms it. You've had three major spikes in the last forty-eight hours."

He tapped his phone screen, turning it toward me. A graph showed the sharp peaks of my pulse during the panic attack in the closet, the confrontation with Marcus, and my meeting with Arthur.

"You're tracking me like an inmate."

"I'm monitoring a patient," Harrison corrected gently. "A patient with a documented history of severe anxiety and dissociative night terrors. You're spiraling, El. The renovation is triggering the old pathways."

I wanted to scream that the pathways weren't old, they were hidden. I wanted to drag him upstairs and make him look at the quarter-inch hole in the cedar paneling.

"I'm fine, Harry. The watch is just miscalibrated."

He sighed, a heavy, disappointed sound. He reached into his leather medical bag sitting on the stool next to him. He pulled out a fresh amber prescription bottle and set it on the granite counter. The plastic clicked sharply against the stone.

"I called this in an hour ago," Harrison said. "It's a slight adjustment to the escitalopram compound. An increase in the suppression agent. Just to help you through this rough patch with the house."

I stared at the bottle. It was identical to the one in my cabinet upstairs. The one I used to keep the memories buried.

"I don't need a higher dose. I need to finish the remodel."

"You need to stabilize," Harrison insisted, his voice hardening slightly. "If you refuse treatment, I have a professional obligation to report your non-compliance. Especially with a minor in your care. Arthur is prepared to file the emergency motion this afternoon."

It was a perfectly synchronized attack. Arthur applied the legal pressure, and Harrison offered the chemical solution. Submit to the erasure, or lose the nephew I loved.

I slowly reached out and picked up the bottle. The child-proof cap resisted my trembling fingers. I pushed down and twisted.

I shook a single, heavy white capsule into my palm.

I looked at the label. It didn't list the standard side effects of an SSRI. It listed 'retrograde amnesia' and 'cognitive detachment.'

I filled a glass with water from the tap.

"Good," Harrison murmured, his eyes tracking my hand as I brought the pill toward my mouth. "It's for the best, El. We're just protecting you."

I placed the capsule on my tongue, maintaining eye contact with my brother.

The label warned of severe memory suppression. He watched her take one.