Arrival

Naked. He was utterly naked. Well, except for his shirt. His khakis and briefs lay pooled around his ankles like discarded snakeskins. When? How? The lecture tape clicked off mid-sentence. Dave scrambled, kicking fabric away, fumbling for the door handle. Escape. Home. Shower. Forget. His fingers brushed cold metal—and froze. An invisible vise clamped around his wrist. *No.* He strained, tendons standing out on his neck. The clinic door swung open by itself. Becky stood silhouetted in the doorway, clipboard clutched to her chest. Her eyes widened, darting from Dave’s pale, trembling form to the impossible parking job. “Dr. Cox?” she squeaked. Dave tried to shout—*Go away! Call the police!*—but his jaw locked tight. Instead, a wide, manic grin stretched his lips. “Just freshening up!” he chirped, voice unnaturally bright. His legs swung out of the car, bare feet hitting hot asphalt. He stood tall, utterly exposed, arms rigidly at his sides. Becky’s face flushed scarlet. Behind her, a chorus of muffled gasps and frantic shuffling echoed from the waiting room—Jessica’s audience shifting for a better view.