INVENTORY OF A TREATMENT ROOM, TUESDAY One table, draped. One clock, ticking toward the first hands. Fourteen needles, silver, each thinner than a wish. One practitioner's breath, held, then released. One patient's shoulder, carrying December. One window, catching morning, losing it. Seven hours of standing. Two hundred small decisions made by touch. One lunch, eaten standing, looking at clouds. One moment between patients when the room belongs to no one and is therefore perfect. One evening, 16 degrees, walking home. One fox, possibly imagined. One Christmas, approaching whether or not anyone is ready. Zero things left undone.