Fiction | April 23, 2019

I signed up for this surgery, believe it or not, just nine days after Susie and I returned to Santa Fe from Mike’s trial. Mike, our oldest. Michael Jr. Twelve days after the jury, majority Inupiat, delivered its verdict. Five weeks ago. “All right,” Dr. Dejean said, “so we’re where we knew we’d be.” He swiveled on his stool. Hefted a life-size model of the male urinary tract from his desk. “Straightforward, as I told you last time. Little discomfort afterward, beyond a catheter for a week.” With space-age instruments, Dr. Dejean would slice in through my bladder, hollow out my prostate, and suture me up, sex drive intact, for all it was worth anymore.

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