The Linoleum Smell of Procedure

The fluorescent lights hum over the gymnasium floor, which is also marked with the faded green bleachers of Grade Six. The small dog sits beside the nurse’s cart, its weight solid, its eyes refusing to blink. I trace the pattern on the chipped ceramic soap dish, a tender ache settling in my chest for the brass protractor on the counter. The air smells of antiseptic and old chalk dust. My brother stands near the vending machine, picking at the stale crinkle of the chips. He stops, and a smaller version of him, six years old, wearing a faded blue t-shirt, steps out from behind the vending machine. The younger him reaches a hand out, and the older boy takes it. The dog shifts its weight, its paws clicking on the floor. I watch the two boys stand together in the half-light of the hallway, the protractor catching the reflection of the overhead fixture.