Gary felt oddly light as he sat upright, like someone had quietly removed a weight he hadn’t realised he was carrying.

The chair hummed as it returned to its neutral position, and the room suddenly felt much less threatening. Still clinical, still bright, but no longer predatory. Just a place where something unpleasant had happened and then, crucially, stopped.

She handed him a cup of water and waited while he took a careful sip, testing his mouth like a man checking the ground after an earthquake.

“No alcohol today,” she said calmly.

Gary nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “I’ve learned lessons.”

She smiled, then shifted smoothly into explanation mode, laying out the aftercare instructions slowly and clearly. What to expect over the next few hours. What sensations were normal. What sensations definitely weren’t. Gary listened closely, nodding along, asking questions instead of pretending he already knew the answers.

This, he realised, was new behaviour.

She explained the importance of finishing the antibiotics, of not poking the area with his tongue, of not celebrating prematurely just because the worst part was over. Gary made a mental note of all of it, aware that this was the point where he usually stopped paying attention.

“Pain might fluctuate,” she said. “That doesn’t mean it’s failed.”

Gary nodded again. “I do that. Assume the worst or the best with no middle ground.”

She glanced at him. “Most people do.”

As they walked back toward the front desk, Gary looked around the waiting room. It seemed smaller now. Less ominous. Just chairs and magazines instead of judgement.

This wasn’t victory. But it was progress.

And for Gary, progress felt unfamiliar enough to be worth respecting.

Book the follow-up and keep moving forward → Page 65

Convince yourself you’re cured and celebrate early → Page 76