“What does that mean?” I asked, even though I already knew. My mouth asked out of habit; my body was already trembling instinctively.
The doctor clasped his hands, serious, careful.
“There’s a sedative in the sample. It’s not a huge amount, but enough to induce deep drowsiness if taken night after night. And there are traces of a second compound that…” He swallowed hard. “…shouldn’t be in a homemade drink. Something that can affect blood clotting.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Were you… drugging me?”
The doctor didn’t use the word “drugging,” as if it weighed heavily on him.
“Someone was administering medication to you without your consent.” And judging by the pattern… —he looked at me intently— it doesn’t seem like an accident.
I left the clinic clutching the folder to my chest, the Zapopan sun hitting my face like a slap. I drove back without music, without the radio, without anything, because any sound could shatter me inside.
At a traffic light, I saw my hands on the steering wheel. They looked the same, but I wasn’t the same anymore.
For six years.
