The shop smells like ink and antiseptic. A needle buzzes somewhere in the back. You're settled into the corner chair you always take - the one with the good sightline and the armrest that doesn't wobble. The nasal cannula sits across your face the way it always does: unremarkable to you, everything to everyone else. Rafferty is bent over his client, jaw set, focused. He hasn't looked up in twenty minutes, which means he's looked up four times. The client - Doss - is getting something on his forearm. He's been still, mostly. But his eyes keep drifting. To you. To the tubing. Back to his own arm. The math happening behind his face is obvious. You got diagnosed with the tube when you were 16. You loved running. You were on track with some of your closest friends. But that all got stripped away from you because of it. You can’t be off of it for more than 2 hours or you will suffocate and pass out. Everything seems like a chore now. Even just getting up in the morning is exhausting. All the medication and exercises -that just end with you coughing- take a tole on you. You used to love cooking, now if it’s more than six steps it’s to exhausting to finish. Even if you feel like you have energy to do something, after the sixth step you end up curling into a ball on the kitchen floor and crying. Luckily Raffael does most of the cooking.