He has dolls and trucks and toy guns and robot action figures and board games and puzzles and a lot of things I don’t recognize. I pick up something that looks like a Ping-Pong paddle with a hole in its center. I am looking at it when the door opens and Richard Carlson, M.D., steps in to the room. He looks just like you would think: average in every way. I can’t even tell how old he is. Somewhere between thirty and fifty. Sandy hair. Regular features. Average weight and height. He is wearing blue jeans to show me how casual and hip he is, and a tweed sport coat to show me he’s a dork. He is holding a notebook with a green leather cover and a big friendly smile that didn’t come with his face. I’m sure he practices it in front of a mirror. “Hi,” he says, extending his free hand. “I’m Dr. Rick.” He has a very soft, dry handshake. “Lucy Szabo.” He looks at the paddle in my left hand. “Do you know what that is?” he asks. “No.” I put the paddle back on the bookshelf.
What do You think about Sweetblood (9781439108741) (2003)?
