The Fake Sample

Annoyance was a thin shield against the storm screaming through my nervous system. I leaned against the doorframe, my body blocking Harrison’s path into the mudroom. Behind him, Julian was still in the driveway, his voice a muffled boom as he argued with the empty silver sedan.

"You look like hell, Eleanor." Harrison’s eyes didn't just see me; they dissected me. He stepped closer, the clinical chill of his presence more effective than the February wind. "The shivering. The pallor. Your biometrics weren't lying."

"It’s a fever, Harry," I snapped, my voice a forced, raspy edge. I kept my hands buried deep in the pockets of my oversized cardigan, crushing the fabric to hide the rhythmic tremors. "I’ve been vomiting for hours. The last thing I need is a lecture on sleep hygiene."

"I’m not here to lecture." He reached into his medical bag, the metallic clink of vials hitting each other sounding like a death knell. He pulled out a sterile vacutainer and a needle assembly. "I’m here to confirm you aren't in a state of self-induced crisis. Sit down. I need two vials."

The sight of the needle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through me, a primal instinct to fight. If he saw my blood—clear of the memory suppressants, spiked with the chemical fallout of withdrawal—he wouldn't just commit me. He’d have the forensic evidence to prove I was mentally incompetent.

"No," I said, my voice gaining a sudden, terrifying clarity. "You don't have my consent, Harrison. And as a chief of psychiatry, you know exactly what that means for your license."

Harrison’s face went rigid, the "dedicated brother" mask slipping to reveal the cold patriarch beneath. He stepped into my space, using his height to pin me against the door. "Eleanor, don't be a child. You are a patient in distress. Your refusal is a symptom of your instability."

"My refusal is a legal right," I countered, leaning into the doorframe to steady the swaying of the room. "And I don't need your needles. I already took a home test Julian brought over—a rapid panel. My 'serum levels' are fine. It’s a virus, nothing more."

"Julian is a contractor, not a lab tech." Harrison raised the needle, his eyes darkening. He wasn't playing the doctor anymore; he was the man who handled problems. "Give me your arm."

"One more step and I call Arthur's clerk," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I'll tell him you're assaulting a private citizen in her own home. I'll make sure the incident report is part of the public record before Arthur can even pick up his gavel."

We stood in the narrow mudroom, a deadlocked geography of blood and betrayal. Harrison’s gaze flicked to the driveway, where Julian was now pointing a phone at the silver sedan, clearly recording the scene. The Vance family didn't do public scandals. We didn't do incident reports.

Harrison lowered the needle. 'You're making a mistake, Eleanor.'