“Just relax.” A man wearing a white coat presses his stethoscope to Milly Ward’s chest. “Take a deep breath, hold it, release.” He nods and pivots toward the door. “A tech will draw your blood. After that, I’ll discuss your MRI results.”

When the door clicks shut, Milly exhales, annoyed. Who’s relaxed in a doctor’s office? She leans back toward her imagination where she visualizes herself on a plush purple velvet couch instead of a vinyl examination table. Humming to warm up her vocals before her illusory solo, she fantasizes herself scanning reviews from last night’s performance — one suggesting she’d be a Tony contender!

“Ms. Ward? I’m here to touch up your makeup.”

“Oh, I did it myself,” Milly tells the person entering her dressing room.

“You did what? I’m supposed to draw your blood, Doctor’s orders.”

“Blood?” Milly looks around, wondering where the couch and makeup mirror went. “The doctor?”

“It’ll just take a few minutes. Make a fist and squeeze.” The medical tech inserts a needle into her vein. Milly turns, eyes averted from the vial filling with burgundy blood. Her mind drifts again, away from the tech, the needle, the blood — and her boring life entering data daily in her gray work cubicle:

“Note Ms. Ward’s color choices: subtle blue-gray undertones juxtaposed with deep burgundies.” The museum curator points to the gold-framed painting, “Perhaps suggesting the sun’s warmth lingering despite the cold harsh world.” He grins at the admiring aesthetes. “Ms. Ward herself agreed to speak to us about her art — Here she is now!”

Milly holds up a hand in greeting: “A pleasure to join you! I created this piece to highlight the challenges of degenerative diseases, the color contrasts to represent moments of hope and despair.” Flushing at the round of applause, Milly bows, murmuring, “Oh, thank you, I’m so flattered!”

“Ms. Ward!” the tech calls, clapping his hands together, interrupting her reverie. “The doctor’s waiting for you. Get dressed. You’ll find his office down the hall to the left. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that,” Milly retorts as the tech leaves. She pulls on her jeans and T-shirt, but when she yanks on her faux leather booties, she pauses, wishing she had an authentic pair of leather cowboy boots instead. Reaching for the doorknob, an image of a sleek chestnut horse grazing in an open field flashes through her mind. She always wanted to ride a horse, to feel its firm muscles carry her away from her crappy job and her ongoing illness, to feel crisp air rejuvenating them both as they trot toward a serene stream framed by vibrant wildflowers.

“This way! The doctor’s waiting!” the tech calls out. “Ms. Ward?!”

Milly tilts her head and examines the man speaking to her: Pale skin, watery eyes, acne marks, flabby arms. Milly gazes at him, but she feels so empty — not for data but for something else.

They blink at each other, but when the tech steps closer to lead her to the consultation office, Millie darts out the door, tossing back her long hair in the sunshine. Maybe doctors will corral her back to see her labs eventually, but today she wants to run while she still can.

Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative based in New Jersey. Her latest flash and CNF have appeared in Switch, Lucky Jefferson, Bending Genres, Every Day Fiction, Sad Girls Diaries, Libre, and 10×10 Flash Fiction. She has written essays in various journals including Brevity Blog and New Jersey English Journal. She holds degrees from University of Pennsylvania and Rutgers University. Her congenital heart issues have contributed to Liz’s understanding of the US healthcare system. Liz’s website is www.ldebeerwriter.com.