Re: The stairwell to the eighth floor, 12:03 AM.
Glancing towards the pirate boy, Joanie huffed, looking back at the doctor. "What Blackbeard said. Now you'd better-" She was cut off as the doctor began to heave, looking terribly ill himself. Something strange and itchy filled her chest. It felt almost like guilt. She stomped it out - there was no room for guilt here. This doctor was taking her for a ride with his wild, ridiculous theories. She deserved a real answer.
As the man began clutching his head in pain, Joanie felt an irrational fear lance her side. Maybe he was a junkie. She had seen one once, an addict going through withdrawal. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, except instead of crunching steel it was bleeding sores. His long sleeves kept her from being able to check his arms for scars, so she simply assumed the worst.
Pursing her lips together, she took a step back. "Fine. I'll just ask my insurance agent if they'll reimburse treatment for being a magic fairy tale princess," she hissed. Stepping around the stool, she glanced at her circumstantial hostage. "Let's go. Isn't there a real doctor in this building?"
Storming out of the kitchen, she stooped to pick up her sweater and hat. As she wriggled into the turtleneck, not bothering to pull her hair out of the long neck that brushed her jaw, she looked into the kitchen with mingled loathing and pity. "Send your bill to 703. What's the standard charge for useless crap, anyway?" It seemed that loathing was winning.