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When I am told to open my mouth, I hope that Mimi can't see inside me, that it's just teeth and my tongue, and even if they're a little dirty, there's nothing else - no rottenness leaking out from within. I comply, and she barely glances in, just enough to get the toothbrush in the right spot. Hopefully, if there's a demon inside me, she's missed his devilish gaze. Mimi holds my head firmly as she moves the toothbrush back and forth, and I try my best to dissociate. Her skin smells like coconut, even after all the times we’ve washed our hands that day. She has a gold bracelet that shimmers in the light as she moves her arm back and forth, certain to get my molars on each side. I don't mind the feeling, I like the firm grip, someone else giving me direction for once.

After a minute or two, she wipes the toothpaste foam from my lower lip, tips water from a cup into my mouth to swish, and then holds a plastic kidney-shaped dish before me to spit into. I miss the firm grasp of her headlock as soon as it is gone. My head feels untethered, too light once Mimi lets go. She wipes off my mouth once again, and then looks expectantly at our teacher, an older, stern nurse for approval.

The instructor nods once, checking the competency off on her clipboard. Beside us, the other two students in our class are finishing the same task, with slightly more difficulty. Chelsea, the daughter of the ATV salesman in town, is holding the head of Jackson, a pre-med student, her hand gently on the base of his skull, her manicured nails holding the toothbrush like a pencil. I see Mimi’s hand twitch, almost undetectably, as if she wanted to walk across the table and fix Chelsea’s grip. Mimi is older than all of us, except the intructor, and I know she's thinking the same thing as me: once you have to brush someone else’s teeth for them, you realize it takes a lot more force than you expect, that you have to hold everything more steady, and the whole thing is more invasive than you're prepared for.

“Chelsea, don’t be afraid to get in there,” the instructor says, making Jackson blush. Chelsea just laughs, her smile easy as it has been through our training all week.

She, too, finishes, and this marks the end of our testing for nursing assistance. We’re sitting in a small, chilly room in the county health department building, filled with CPR mannequins, boxes of various medical equipment, and one model patient - a dummy on a stretcher with tubes, lines, dressings, and breathing mask. He reminds me a bit of Caleb, right after the accident. I glance out the window, and I can see the creek in the distance, past the parking lot and the main road. The trees all have bright spring leaves on them now, and I picture myself going to lay on the bank instead of going home, time without class or Caleb or Hunter or Jen. Just being completely alone. But I know I won't go.