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"No my dear," he said in a smooth voice didn't seem at allto match his appearance, "This shouldn't hurt a bit." And with that, heplunged the needle into my arm.Surprisingly, he was absolutely right. I only felt a quick pinprick ofpain, but that was really it. Whoever this guy was he would make aterrific phlebotomist. Once he'd collected my blood within the syringe,a practice that somehow I knew was well outdated by this point, he tookit over to the machine that appeared to be an amalgamation of severaldifferent ones while I staunched the droplet of blood left behind with acotton ball he'd taken from his coat pocket and handed to me.While he injected my blood into some kind of funnel Daddy walked over,pulled me to my feet, and slanted his mouth over mine. Instantly everythought, worry, and question that had been circling about in my mindvanished in a puff of smoke that was replaced by a slow, intense burningthat started at my core and quickly spread outwards. Yes! I shouted inmy mind. The handlers were rolling up a metal contraption that had a cross bar at the end closest to the table, a leather strap about a foot wide across the middle, and in back two fiber glass structures which were obviously for his knees, if they were spread apart as far as possible. The handlers helped him get his knees in place and to lay his forearms across the bar in front. It was padded and covered in leather and there was a depression in the middle that reminded him of the head rest at the ophthalmologist’s office. When he rested his ribs on the leather strap he could rest his forehead on the depression in the front bar or on his hands. The frame had him tipped up enough so that if he tipped his head just a little he had the same view of his naked, splayed body as the people at the table. He closed his eyes momentarily to savor his exposure. The people at the sides and far side of the table got up and gathered around so they could watch what was happening in the back. He could.
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