The examiner asked me to take off the glove. I had expected the request. My fingers still resisted it.
The altered opening passed over the dressing without catching. I put the glove beside the folder and laid my hand on the cloth he had spread across the table. Morning light reached the edge of the basin. A clock stood behind his shoulder, close enough that I could see the hand move without turning my head.
Nine o'clock.
The chair had a small notch along one arm, worn smooth where other patients had rubbed it. I found it with my thumb and made myself stop. I didn't want the examiner to see me holding the furniture as if I expected it to move.
