It’s a Real Condition

"It’s a Real Condition" by Marcella Senti

Issue 3.13 | Fiction

Cover Art: L. Erickson

It feels like it’s coming out of my ears. That’s what I tell the doctor.

What do you mean?

He looks unamused and keeps flicking his pen against the clipboard.

When I’m about to cry, I explain, the tears well up and my vision goes blurry and I can’t hear anything. It feels like my ears are welling up with tears, too.

His glance strays to the ceiling, sweeps down the other side, and comes back to me. I feel like water through a colander. That’s what I’m trying to tell him.

The doctor sighs.

You probably have an over-production of ear wax.

He stands up, grabs his pointy scope like he wants to stab me, and breathes against my cheek. Maybe he thinks a lobotomy is a better idea.

Yup.

You can see it? What I’m saying?

No.

He moves to the other side. His breath smells like bad pasta and apathy. I don’t know what apathy smells like usually, but garlic has something to do with it. The lapel of his coat has a little pink stain.

You have a buildup of ear wax. It’s causing pressure.

In my eyes?

He sighs again.

No. In your ears. You can buy medication to dissolve it.

It’s—it can’t be just that.

He sits down again and doesn’t look at me. I give too much eye contact to his oily forehead. The crispy paper attached to a spool at the back of the chair crinkles underneath me. I feel like I’m on a sheet pan, waiting to be put into the oven. That would be preferable.

The doctor jots something down in chicken scratch. “Needs to see a psychiatrist,” it probably says.

Any family history I should know about?

He can tell I’m not satisfied.

Shouldn’t you have asked that earlier?

Well, he snaps without looking up, I’m asking it now.

My mom went to the ICU overnight for a broken heart once.

He flicks his glare up at me.

That’s a real condition.

When I don’t say anything, he jerks a hand out with a flippant gesture and says,

Takotsubo.

What?

Medically, that’s what it is. Broken Heart Syndrome.

Yes. She had that.

Well, it’s not genetic. It’s an over-dilation of the left ventricle that occurs as a physical reaction to sudden loss or grief.

I shift. The paper wrinkles. I don’t want him looking at my heart.

You’re fine.

I hang my head.

Anything else?

My ears are filling up again. At my silence, he rips a short piece of paper from his clipboard and turns his back to sign it on the counter. I blink and it leaves a single splatter on the paper.

There’s something in my throat, I blurt. It’s been there for days. Weeks, maybe.

The doctor’s eyes are glazed over, but he manages to raise an eyebrow.

I tap the base of my throat, between my collarbones, where he used to kiss me.

But I can’t tell the doctor that.

Like a lump, I explain pathetically.

He moves through mud getting to me, then prods his cold, calloused fingertips around my throat and neck.

Lymph nodes are fine. Swallow for me.

I’ve already tried to swallow it all. I try again.

Looks fine to me. You’re probably experiencing some acid reflux.

He’s already gone back to his slip of paper on the counter. That idol. The lights are too bright.

You can find all these medications at the supermarket.

He hands me that slip and opens the door, beckoning me to leave. I pull it from his grasp and step into the sterile hallway, a long line of the same bland colors and walls and doors.

Exit is down the hall and to the left. Have a nice day, he says, and walks the other way.

I can hear his shoes slap the floor while I stand there, clutching the paper.

Ear Wax Dissolving Drops

Pepto Bismol

Antacid Tablets

And then, lower down,

More water

More rest

If I could laugh, I would. Instead, I bark out some short sound like a seal, around the lump in my throat, and hope nobody heard. All I do is rest, when I’m not working. Which is always. There’s a month’s worth of clothes on my bedroom floor.

The hallway goes forever in both directions. It’s hypnotizing. The doctor left the door to the examination room open, and I consider going back to the chair, shutting the door, and waiting for another doctor to see me. Maybe they would listen.

You did this to yourself.

But that probably wouldn’t work.

This is the second doctor I’ve seen in two weeks. When I went to see the first one, I told her my chief complaint was a weight in my chest. I told her I thought something had cracked, like my sternum or a rib. She asked me if I’d been through a traumatic incident lately.

I didn’t know how to answer that.

At least she was somewhat sympathetic.

I mean, have you fallen, been hit, or otherwise sustained any physical injury to the area?

I felt squirrely at that question.

Not exactly.

Any bruising?

On my heart?

She had given me a very odd look.

On your chest.

Oh.

I looked down the wispy sheet they called a gown.

No.

She nodded politely. Patiently.

Are you having trouble breathing?

Yes.

I could breathe, but I did find it difficult. I could never exhale fully. She stood up and took out her stethoscope.

I’ll take a look at your lungs.

The doctor did her whole routine, asking me to take deep breaths and sliding her chilly scope over my chest and back. All the places he used to run his hands over.

But I couldn’t tell the doctor that.

How often do you feel this weight?

She spoke from behind me.

Always.

When did it start?

I wondered if she had picked up on the change in my heartbeat. I tried to swallow that thing in my throat, which had been smaller at the time.

About a month ago.

A month?

She didn’t really hide her surprise.

Are you sure?

Yes.

She sighed and did that thing doctors do where they make a show of handling their stethoscope and draping it around their neck like they’ve practiced in a mirror.

Well, there’s no rattling or anything to indicate any buildup of fluid in your lungs. Do you ever feel any pain or squeezing in your heart?

I blinked at her. I didn’t understand the question.

Yes.

How often?

Always.

How long?

About a month?

A month?

Yes.

Any rapid heart rate?

I had paused to think. I felt slower, actually.

No.

The doctor gave me a defeated shrug. I didn’t think doctors were supposed to do that.

Your vitals are fine. There’s nothing to indicate anything serious.

What about the heaviness?

It could be musculoskeletal. I could order a scan, but insurance probably won’t cover it.

No, thank you.

That had been it.

I came back today after a few days of my ears filling up. Unlike my eyes, they did not spill over. So now, the pressure was in my chest and my head.

I finally decide trying to con the doctors is a bad idea and slink my way back to the front.

The receptionist lets me lurk, feeling smaller and smaller, until she finishes smashing down her sandwich with loud gulps. Her mouth is wide and flat, like a frog, and she gets a whole lot of lipstick on the bread before she eats it.

She ushers me over by extending a crooked finger. I step up the desk feeling like a child who can’t quite see over the dinner table.

There’s a sixty-dollar copay for today.

She doesn’t look up. Her lips make a terrible suction noise when she runs her tongue over her teeth.

Oh. The last one was only forty dollars.

She shrugs.

Inflation.

There’s a looming hunch in her back. I wonder if a chiropractor would find it satisfying to buckle into a straight line.

Sign.

She taps the card machine. I pick up the non-pen and draw a few flowers.

The receptionist does not find it funny. I try to leave quickly by slamming my hand into the automatic door button over and over until it opens. She does not find that funny either.

The wind outside is cold and the sun is warm. My body doesn’t know what to do about it. My ears aren’t filling up right now, but I know they will later. It’s always worse at night. I guess the doctors don’t always know what they can’t see.

It was your decision.

Going home doesn’t feel right. The wind pushes my hair around and it sticks to my face and gets caught in my sunglasses. It’s too long. When I swing myself into the driver’s seat and finally shut the door, it’s everywhere. The weight of it is too much, and I can feel his hands running through it. Tucking a loose strand behind my ear.

I speed out of the parking lot and hit a curb making the green light.

You want to do what?

The hairstylist looks at me like I would imagine a customs agent would if I said I wanted to bring a flamethrower into Italy. Not sure why Italy. It just feels that way. Ludicrous.

I shrug under that all-consuming cape like a floating head. The fabric flutters stiffly.

I want you to do whatever you want.

She blinks at me in the mirror.

We don’t really do those kinds of requests.

Can you consider it creative freedom?

No.

Why?

She pops a hip and glares at me.

I’m not interested in a lawsuit.

I shake my head at her in a reassuring way.

I don’t have money for a lawsuit.

She rolls her eyes like the doctor. They could be siblings. She’s resolved enough then to sigh.

Can you at least give me a starting point?

I want you to cut it out.

Cut what out?

The weight.

The hairstylist runs her fingers through my long hair. I shiver. It is very long.

Well, we can start by trimming the split ends and thinning it.

Yes, please.

She takes her shiny silver shears and starts pulling my hair at diagonal angles through her nimble, bony hands, snipping with what appears to me like carelessness, but maybe that’s what happens when you’re so used to something. The precision does not matter as much.

Flurries of my sheared hair snow over my shoulders. My neck looks too thick with this cape buttoned around it, and I don’t like the way I look in the mirror. I have to look away from my own red-rimmed eyes. The hairstylist doesn’t like that very much; she keeps having to ask me to tilt my head back forward and straight, and to uncross my legs. It affects the outcome, she tells me.

I need you to keep your head level.

Her tone tickles my scalp, in a bad way.

Okay.

And you have to uncross your legs.

Why?

She huffs, threading her thinning scissors through the middle of my head. It looks like she’s going to cut it all off really horribly, because they have sets of teeth on both blades, but they only clip the strands between all the other strands, apparently.

It shifts your weight, she snaps.

All the weight?

I picture all the heaviness burbling and splashing like water in a vase when I move my body to one hip instead of two.

No. Your hips affect your shoulders, and it moves the body so I can’t make an even cut all the way around.

Oh.

The hairstylist keeps cutting.

Eventually she starts moving my head herself and not-so-gently taps my shoe with her boot instead of telling me to fix my posture. I have to close my eyes to stop from looking in the mirror. If I look in the mirror, then I think too much, and I know what will happen next—my ears will fill up. My chest will get heavy.

What do you think?

Her vacant, nonchalant expression doesn’t assure me.

Could you cut some more off?

She raises an eyebrow. Despite the fact I will be paying her more money, she doesn’t seem to want to keep me around.

How much?

I don’t know what to say.

Can you cut until I feel lighter?

The hairstylist shakes her head just barely, enough for me to see, and separates my hair into two sides, sliding her closed scissors on top to indicate the length.

There?

We can try.

I can tell she isn’t going to confirm anything further with me, because she goes right in and cuts it off with the determination of someone who knows they are pulling the right wire to defuse a bomb.

What about now?

Can it be shorter?

Another few decisive cuts.

I’ll fix the details later, she explains. Now?

I shake my head. It’s not quite light enough.

More, please?

More cuts. The hairstylist stops talking and just stands up to glare at me in the mirror when she wants my direction.

Just a little more.

I finally concede when the hair is just above my collarbone. It’s the most dramatic visual change I’ve made in years.

The hairstylist lets out an exhale walking me to the front desk, and I could’ve sworn she whispered “finally” under her breath.

That’ll be eighty-five dollars.

Eighty-five dollars?

I didn't think it would be that expensive. It’s been a while since I had a haircut. I guess I did go to a salon. She did the whole scalp-massaging, hair-washing thing.

She doesn’t look at me.

Yes.

I think she added extra for my non-compliance.

Okay.

Just tap your card on the reader and answer the questions.

She still doesn’t look at me. I stare down at the reader, where it asks how much of a tip I want to give.

Was gratuity added already?

The hairstylist flicks her eyebrows up at me. They are immaculate lines of scorched brown.

No.

Okay.

I press “20%”, which adds eighteen dollars to my payment. Usually, I get a bad sinkhole feeling in my stomach when the price is that much, but I’ve already spent enough today to offset the feeling of frugality into casual indifference. I pick up the non-pen again and draw a little mountain scene. The hairstylist also must not find this funny because she doesn’t say goodbye to me when I leave.

It does feel lighter, above my chest. My shoulders feel positively airy, and so does my neck, I suppose, and there’s nothing swaying along my back when I turn. The wind doesn’t blow it around so much. I remember when I get to the car, though, that I never truly love the way my hair looks after a haircut. I don’t like the way she styles it. It’s not how I would.

I look at my own eyes in the little flip-down mirror. I couldn’t look at myself in the salon, but I can do it now, if I frame it only to see my eyes. That is acceptable. I twist my head both ways. My hair swings, but not like it used to. I go back to looking at my eyes. Sternum down, I still feel heaviness. She couldn’t cut it out; the doctors couldn’t say what it was. My ears start to fill up. I’m still looking at my eyes.

Just when my ears feel like they might actually overflow this time, there’s a sharp, zipping, hot pain on my finger. I jump in my seat like a jolt of electricity has gone through me. I turn my hand to see it. The pain is burning, numbing, throbbing to constant—but manageable. In an instant it has dimmed to something I feel in my periphery and don’t say anything about.

There’s a little crack in my finger, a tiny, crumbling zig-zag. I watch it for a moment, just a shape on the skin, feeling it pulse. It rivals my heartbeat. Then slowly, the crack starts to fill with something unannounced and iridescent. Like blood but not blood itself. A tiny pinprick drop forms and falls from my finger, vanishing upon collision with the ground.

I stare at it for another moment and forget I have just one heartbeat instead of two. The pulsing dims when I realize this. I shake my head and the weight sits in my chest, and I think and I think and another sharp zip of pain runs over my knee.

I rustle up my pant leg. A craggy line cuts through the skin like I scraped my knee falling off a bike, but there’s no blood: just—again—that shimmering substance that prickles and disappears and leaves an ache behind.

Three heartbeats. I barely make it home without causing a catastrophe. When I go to bed there are cracks all over my skin, seeping the iridescent malady. I think and think and do not sleep—the new shift of tectonic plates beneath my skin ruptures silently, sweetly, but it will not let me rest.

Can you tell me again what you’re here for?

The dermatologist is thin and pretty. She regards me with more empathy than the others have.

Um.

I don’t really know what to say. The assistant who came in to do the preliminary questioning was young, almost my age. When I spoke to him, I saw the words fly through his head, the passage of no resistance and no retention.

It’s okay. You can tell me.

She has nice eyes. The weight hurts. It pushes on my sternum. The longer I look at her, the more I think, and the more my ears fill up.

My skin is throbbing, I whisper.

I’m sorry?

I clear my throat and shift. This gown isn’t paper, but it’s still flimsy. There’s no paper on her examination chair. She crosses her legs and props an elbow on her knee, watching me. She looks like a twist tie. I feel again like something about to be put in the oven, but this time I’m bound to stick. Some force will have to push or pull to get me unstuck.

I clear my throat again. I try. I reach a hand up to my neck to try and scratch the lump down.

There are more heartbeats, I finally say.

Heartbeats?

Yes. My skin is throbbing.

Throbbing?

I think it’s the weight.

The weight?

Yes. It’s like my ears.

Your ears?

Yes. It’s trying to escape.

What is?

The heaviness.

Heaviness?

Yes. It’s too much.

The pretty dermatologist tilts her head and scratches her hairline. There’s a ring on her finger. It glitters. That’s the kind of weight I want.

So let me get this straight.

I nod.

You’re feeling this heaviness.

I nod.

And it’s so big—so big, it feels like it’s consuming you.

I nod. My ears fill up quickly.

And this heaviness, it’s trying to get out.

I blink. My cheeks are warm.

But there’s not an easy way.

No, I plead. No, there’s not.

It’s trying to get out any way it can.

Yes.

I feel so desperate. I hold out my arms, both of them, aloft.

It’s breaking through. Every time—it never came out of my ears, and the heaviness couldn’t be cut away, and every time I think of him it gets worse and it hurts—every time, now, every time, it cracks my skin. It’s so bad! It’s so bad it breaks through!

I am trying so hard not to cry. I don’t want to cry. I can’t hear anything and everything in my line of sight is blurry.

The dermatologist stands up and approaches my arms.

Your skin is cracking? Are you experiencing dry skin?

She doesn’t touch my arms, just looks at them with her own hands clasped behind her back. I find it to be a cold, distance gesture. I hold my arms aloft for no one. No one returns the ask for embrace.

No, not dry skin.

Sensitive?

Me?

No, your skin.

Oh. Not particularly.

Do you have an occupation where you wash your hands frequently?

Wash my hands of what?

She starts to look at me with the same odd look the other doctors did. It doesn’t compliment her face very well. My heart squeezes.

Like a doctor, she says. Or maybe a server, or a teacher.

I frown.

No. Not like a doctor. Not anything like that.

Are you cold?

I don’t think so.

You don’t think so?

Do I come off as cold to you?

Now she really makes that odd face. I’m not sure what I said.

I mean, do you frequently experience cold weather or temperatures that could adversely affect your skin?

Oh. I guess not. Not more than normal.

Okay. Do you have any underlying conditions?

The heaviness deepens. It’s expanding under my ribs. Inflating, dilating.

Yes.

What is it?

What?

Is it eczema, or maybe psoriasis?

No, nothing like that.

So you don’t have any conditions?

Well, that’s what I’m here about.

She finishes her slow turn around the chair and stands directly in front of me.

Tell me again.

Don’t you just need to look at it?

She shakes her head.

Just tell me how you’re experiencing it.

Right now?

Yes—well, how did it start?

I pause. What came first? The lump, or the ears, or the heaviness? I struggle to pull in a breath. I know what came first. I know what pulled too tight, what snapped. I know where the weight made the breaking point. The distance, the tether breaking, the separation.

But I can’t tell the doctor that.

It felt like it was coming out of my ears, I say instead. There was a lump in my throat. It got bigger. The heaviness wouldn’t go away, no matter what. I saw a lot of doctors and I cut my hair.

Okay.

And then my skin started breaking.

Does it bleed?

I hold my hands up to show her that it doesn’t bleed. The sparkling fluid is wrapping around my limbs. It drips, but it doesn’t mar the floor.

It’s not blood. See?

The dermatologist squints her eyes but doesn’t say anything.

It’s iridescent. Many colors. Like the way spilled gas looks on a puddle of water. Except more translucent, I guess. Don’t you think? It’s almost clear. With the colors in the right light.

That’s very strange.

Don’t you agree?

She doesn’t answer. She still hasn’t touched my skin at all.

It’s okay. You can do what you need to do for the examination.

It’s not that, she says, staring intently at my skin.

I pull up the gown to show her my knees.

See? Cracks, like fissures.

Fissures? That’s an odd word to use.

How would you describe them?

She doesn’t answer.

You’re the doctor.

It’s not that.

Did I not sign the waiver or something? Am I missing paperwork?

It’s not that either, she sighs.

You can examine them, I tell her. It’s not going to hurt.

It doesn’t hurt?

Well, no. It hurts. I just don’t think you’re going to hurt it more.

Hm.

I’m here so you can help.

I’m not so sure I can.

What?

The dermatologist squats down, looks at my legs, stands up, and puts her hands on her hips.

How many are there?

What?

Fissures, you call them. Cuts or cracks in the skin.

I haven’t counted.

Give me a guess.

They’re everywhere.

Everywhere?

Yes.

No where in particular?

It’s all over.

The cracks?

Yes.

Are you sure?

The question catches me off guard. I look down at my own skin, the slow meandering of glittering, faintly rainbow streams, each of their origins throbbing in a dull pain. I wonder if this is what medieval bloodletting felt like.

Of course I’m sure.

The dermatologist has started to grip her chin with her hand and sits like The Thinker.

I don’t know how to tell you this.

It’s okay. I don’t mind the medical jargon.

It’s not that.

She almost looks sympathetic.

There are no cracks in your skin.

I’m not sure I hear her correctly.

I’m sorry?

She clears her throat, as though to absolve culpability.

There’s nothing wrong with your skin.

It feels like it’s coming out of my ears again. My eyes feel stretched thin.

No. It—it can’t be that.

The dermatologist creates an expression with her face that looks pitiful and almost annoyed.

Not again.

In my professional, medical opinion, what you are describing is not happening to your skin. There are no breaks, cracks, signs of bleeding, or symptoms of any other dermatological conditions.

It’s a real condition, I plead.

I think this may be indicative of a larger issue.

I blink and blink. It splatters on the cushioned chair and runs under my legs, mixing with the shimmering substance. It doesn’t go away this time. My head feels underwater. I am no longer oven-bound but drowning, gently pushed into the boiling depths of a pot on the stove. This is my struggle for the rim.

Please don’t say that.

I’m being honest.

How? How can you tell?

I can’t see it. What you’re saying.

I hold up my arms again, watching them bleed what isn’t blood, this action of trying to alleviate the heaviness in my chest, which isn’t feeling reprieve—and I can see it, I can see it, it is so clear.

I stutter and cough trying to speak.

You can’t see it?

No.

There are small pools of iridescence on her floor now.

She turns her back to me, worshipping the idol of a referral for help she cannot give me herself, writing on her prescription pad and signing off with her authority that she does not want me as her problem to fix.

I’m going to recommend you see someone about this.

Will they see it?

I’m saying you should see them.

But they need to see me.

That’s what I’m saying. They will.

Are you sure?

I’ll call it in myself.

It’s not that.

She has nothing more to say. We do not understand each other.

She hands me a slip with her diagnosis and has the nerve to send a small smile my way. It is only a fraction of the kind of sympathy I thought she had before. I cannot tell anymore.

I hope you get better, she says.

I do not respond.

She follows me out of the room, trailing behind. Before I walk through the door, I turn to look behind me. I am leaving a path of iridescent spots. She is stepping in them.

My ears are pounding as I look down the hallway. It makes time freeze. It lengthens. As I twist my head, my right ear finally pops. Something warm slips down my neck. I put my hand up to it, and it comes away covered in a translucent rainbow.

The exit is all the way down to your right, the dermatologist says from behind me.

I turn. She goes the other way and disappears. Her footsteps don’t make any noise—or, at least, I can’t hear it. My one ear is still full, the other overflowing.

It’ll be ninety-two dollars for today.

I blink at the receptionist. Like the dermatologist, she’s pretty and delicate.

That’s a very specific number.

She shrugs.

I’m sorry. I don’t make those kinds of decisions.

She almost sounds kind.

It’s not covered?

No.

Oh.

It’s the copay.

But she didn’t do anything.

What?

She couldn’t see it.

The receptionist gives me a funny, disbelieving look.

I hold out my hand to her, over the high counter.

Can you see it?

The receptionist looks. She really does. I think she is the most earnest.

She shakes her head and purses her lips in an apologetic way.

Should I?

You can’t see it.

No. I’m sorry, whatever it is.

My other ear pops. They are spilling over; it’s a fondue fountain. The supply never ends. It’s a recycled hurt.

Card today?

The receptionist speaks gently.

I nod.

Sign there.

I pick up the pen that’s not a pen and draw a bunch of rain clouds.

She smiles, just a little.

Outside, the air is tepid and still. I can barely breathe. The heaviness in my chest is compressing on itself; I expect the cartilage in my sternum to snap at any moment. I can’t hear, either—everything is muffled and far away. Despite the fact they’ve popped, the fluid still blocks my eardrums. Very little of my senses work like they should. All I can think about is the only thing I’ve been thinking about, every interaction a reminder of a detail I can only ascribe to him, the reference point for it all.

I leave a disjointed trail of iridescent fluid on the sidewalk behind me. It gathers in streaks and long, thin puddles, splatters and pinpricks and spots depending on how I move. I walk with no real direction, approaching a crosswalk where a small group of people have gathered to wait for the right signal. They do not regard me with any concern or even interest—I understand now they cannot see the scene I’ve left behind. I will have to do this on my own.

I linger with the group. There are so many heartbeats along my skin. Every few moments, when I am tempted to think consciously again, there are light hot zips of pain and then it dulls again into some kind of angina. The heaviness, the iridescence, the cracks and the aches and the persistence of thought—all I have rejected and pushed away is pushing back, reeling to be free of restraint.

I assume the light changes. The group of people around me murmurs and mumbles, shuffling in various degrees of urgency and awareness. I try to move with them.

It does not work.

It’s coming from my eyes now. I can’t see, and I can’t hear, I can only think; I slip on the fat yellow lines of the crosswalk where the smooth paint and my trail of rainbow translucence have concocted a poor combination for grip. I fall, sweeping my leg out, and catch someone else with the collateral. I feel comedic, the way it happened. It seemed exaggerated.

Are you okay?

I speak without seeing. I reach a hand out. The person I have taken down with me is asking the same question at the same time, our words jumbled.

He laughs, lightly. Reaches out his hand as well.

Oh.

We help each other up. I keep my eyes low, my head dipped, to divert from the reason I cannot see.

That laugh.

He must realize, I think. His hand is wrapped around my wrist, and mine around his, and I know the ribbons of muscle there. I have a fondness for them. He is—

You have them too.

I let my gaze trail his arm. We are mirror images. On his fingers, his knuckles, up his wrist and forearm, disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt, are snaking lines of broken skin, the same as mine, expelling the same nameless, inexplicable, iridescent, oil-in-water substance—and the heaviness breaks, floods in my chest, and my ears pop again, violently, and there are at once a million heartbeats—and then, almost imperceptibly, ordinarily, it becomes just two. I look up.

It’s you.

—

Marcella Senti is a writer from Kohler, Wisconsin. She received her degree in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Denver. Alongside freelance writing projects, Marcella is the resident writer for WASH for Life, Inc. and posts original prose, poetry, and essays on her Substack, “The Trailhead”. Her work has appeared in the DU literary magazine, Foothills.