Harrison’s card then at the tiny cottage across the street. What sort of therapist worked out of a house painted eggplant purple? The kind that claimed they could cure phantom pain with hypnosis; that’s what kind. What was he expecting? A high-rise office building? He gritted his teeth against the pins and needles sensation in his left hand — or what his nervous system still believed was his left hand. Pain meds helped, but not enough. That’s why he was here, knocking on the Pepto-Bismol pink door of Bluestar Morninglory’s Holistic House of Healing. The door creaked open. A black and white striped cat darted between Jonathan’s feet. He spun around and grabbed it with his right hand. The crazy cat dug its claws into Jonathan’s forearm. He gritted his teeth and turned around to find a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway. She looked pretty good for an old broad. Her faded jeans and old Bolder-Boulder t-shirt from 2009 hugged her curvy body, but her tanned-leather face and grey streaked hair kept Jonathan’s libido in check.
