Wilson wanted me to share my feelings about having absence seizure epilepsy. I wanted him to stop glancing at my mom like a dog waiting to be called by its master. She wanted to be back in the Landmark Building, floors 22–23–24, helping companies pay no taxes in any sovereign nation, instead of dealing with her furtive daughter. Outside the window, Hong Kong poured down rain, slanting and warm, the air cancer-smoke-grey from perpetual China pollution. “The episode on the minibus,” he said. “Your mother reported that it was different from the others?” I shrugged. “Take off the hat,” Mom said. “Will it cure my disorder?” “You have a condition, not a—” “I have a mal-brain. A hat might be smart.” “It’s rude.” “I don’t mind,” Dr. Wilson said. “Well, I do.” “Can I keep my dress on?” I said. Her lips, already unpursed by my using the word “disorder,” parted in shock. “Let’s start over,” he said. Then, “It’s fine, Leah.” “If you say so,”
