Silent Creed

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Daniel Tate clenched his teeth and looked away just as the needle pierced a vein in his arm. He’d spent two tours of duty in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He’d been shot at, dodged IEDs, and escaped a grenade. But needles — damn, he hated needles.

“This will help relax you,” Dr. Shaw told him.

When she walked in the door, Tate had been relieved to see a woman. But she had barely introduced herself before she pulled out a stainless steel tray with vials and surgical utensils and, of course, several syringes. Her black hair was pulled back tight, leaving only long bangs that overlapped heavy-framed glasses. She was younger than he expected, with smooth skin that hadn’t yet earned wrinkles at the corners of her mouth or eyes. And she was attractive, but instead of looking at her now, Tate let his eyes scan the room. He didn’t want to even see the needle, so he stared at the walls.

It was a strange room, empty except for the examination table. The drywall looked spongy, like the foam mats you’d find at the basketball court tacked up under the basket for overenthusiastic athletes to bounce off. Only these mats weren’t tacked onto the walls, they were the walls — whitewashed and seamless. The term “padded cell” came to mind.

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