The nurse, seeing her confusion, beckoned an orderly over and, taking an elbow each, helped her to stand and guided her towards a set of doors on the other side of the room. These led to a changing room, but instead of lockers, Emma noted that there was a counter that looked like it belonged in the post office, as it had a glass window and a hatch. She could make out rows and rows of cardboard boxes stacked on shelves behind the counter. One such box, which was empty, stood on the counter. It was open and the lid was on the counter next to it.?Look, I don’t know what’s happening, but you have made a mistake. I don’t belong here,? Emma tried.?I know dear, but you are going to be staying with us for a little while, just until the doctor can have a chat with you. Then we can decide what is best. But for now we need to give you a shower and get you ready for the night.??But you don’t understand. I am not a patient. I,? Emma stopped what she was about to say. She was going to. I said Hi as I passed his room, and he called me back. Sticking my head in his room, I asked why he wasn’t at the kegger, and he told me he had hurt his back playing basketball that afternoon. He had done a couple of joints in hopes of relieving the pain, but no luck. He reminded me that I knew how to handle muscle pulls (I had been a trainer/student manager for my high school’s football and baseball teams and had some first aid and injury treatment training, including massage). He asked if I would massage his back to relieve the muscle strain. What could I say? Here was a roommate, in pain, asking for help. But I wanted to touch him very much, and was afraid if I did, he would know I wanted him. Yet how could I say no? I said Sure, and asked him to roll over. I knelt next to the bed and started to do a very chaste, dry massage through his t-shirt. He asked if it wouldn’t be better if he took off his shirt, so I said sure. He rolled back over again, and looked at me, his eyes showing.
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