Human Sister

using a side kick, sent it scooting into a corner of the room. “Hurry up,” Casey said. “Off with the rest. The teleband, too. We don’t have all day.”
    After I finished undressing, the doctor said, “All right, Ms. Jensen. Mr. Casey has determined that you may have illegally smuggled microdevices into the United States. What I’ll ask you to do is lie down here”—he patted the top of the white-paper-covered exam table—“on your left side, and I’ll administer a suppository. It’s just a little thing. Won’t hurt a bit.”
    Next, the doctor asked me to sit up on the edge of the table and drink the milky liquid from the jar Casey had brought in. The liquid was both a laxative and an emetic, the doctor said, useful for flushing out anything I was hiding in my digestive tract. As I drank, he secured the portable toilet to the floor using suction cups attached to the toilet’s base. Then he positioned the white pail in front of the toilet, picked up my clothes and shoes, and left.
    Casey gave me a pleased smirk and pointed first to the toilet—“Shit here”—then to the pail—“Puke there. Got it?”
    I nodded. My insides had already begun rumbling.
    “Good. We’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Have fun.”

    “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked when he returned.
    I felt ill and weakened by my digestive ordeal, but I didn’t respond to the doctor’s question. After a few seconds he said, “Drink this. It’ll make you feel much better.” He handed me a glass containing a cloudy liquid. Though I still felt nauseated, I drank the liquid, which tasted like salty lemonade, and almost instantly my insides settled down.
    “Feeling better?”
    “Thank you,” I said, handing the glass back to him.
    He looked surprised that I’d spoken. “You’re welcome.” After a moment he added, “I’m sorry to have made you feel so sick, but that’s an unfortunate part of my job. Some people really do try to bring in nasty stuff, you know. Do you feel good enough to stand? There’s a shower in there where you can clean up.” He pointed toward the door in the back wall of the room.
    He told me the stream of water in the shower was set to last only two minutes, so I washed quickly. There was no soap. I presumed that the shower water—chemicals evidently had been added to it, as it stung a bit—would be tested for microdevices that might have been clinging to my skin. When the water stopped, the doctor opened the shower door, asked me to step out, and handed me a towel. Casey had entered the room. He sat on a chair, looking bored. The pail and portable toilet were gone.
    “Lie down on your back on the table,” the doctor instructed, resuming a more professional tone of voice. “We’ll take a scan of your body. Please place your arms and hands on the table beside you.”
    Using a wand-like device, he began the scan at my feet and slowly worked up. I was careful not to show any emotion as, with a faint hiss, the beige wand of the scanner passed over my nose. I was concerned that irregularities in my cribriform plate and the neural structures emanating from it might be detected.
    “What’s up with the finger?” Casey asked.
    The doctor looked at the computer monitor. “It was broken, probably within the last thirty-six hours. Nothing unusual that I can see.”
    “If you knew the characters we’re dealing with here, you’d know they easily might have broken her finger on purpose just to create a ruse for the cast. Remove it. We’ll take it over to the lab. The ring, too.”
    The doctor took off the cast, then the ring, and they left.

    “Tell me about the transmitter behind your right knee,” Casey ordered as he entered again, the doctor in his wake.
    I didn’t answer. Casey turned to the doctor. “She failed to declare it, so remove it. No anesthetic.”
    “Please lie on your stomach, Ms. Jensen,” the doctor said.
    I felt his fingers press against the back of my knee and find a tiny lump; then came the sharp pain of a small knife cut. But I’d been prepared by Grandpa for much worse.
    After a few seconds, the doctor said, “It looks like a standard transmitter used by private security companies. I’d say it was implanted when she was a small child. Many wealthy families implant them in—”
    “I know. I know,” Casey said. “Mike!”
    “Yes, sir,” a voice from the computer monitor answered.
    “Bring in the inquisitor. We’ve also got an implanted device for you