Gemotions

“Another blood test,” Martha muttered, the words barely audible. The phlebotomist, a chirpy young woman with too much eyeliner, beamed back, oblivious. Martha hated her. Hated her relentless positivity, her brightly colored scrubs, the way she treated every patient like a delicate flower.

The test results came back a week later. They were on her doctor’s desk, along with a file containing *his* results. Martha’s doctor looked up, his face a mask of false sympathy.

“It’s… unusual,” he began. Martha cut him off. "Spare me the theatrics." She already knew. She’d been researching the disease for years, obsessively cataloging every symptom, every study.

Then the doctor gestured toward the other file. “A Mr. Davies. He has the same rare… thing.”

Martha stared at the file, the name a cold stab of something akin to loathing. Why him? What did this other person, this *Mr. Davies*, have that she didn't?