Interrogated
A short story about mentalizing
The Frontier Psychiatrists is a daily health themed newsletter. Today, a palate cleansing sorbet of absurdity!
Owen Muir, May 23, 2036.1
I can’t believe it ended like this. I’m sitting, hands bound behind my back, hood over my head. I have not been able to see anything for the entire trip. I thought being an intelligence operative would be… I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought that it would be some time in Langley. I don’t know. Not in this—a god-forsaken outpost in mybuttiStan.
The very, very cold cement sends its tendrils up through my pants. My thighs and feet know a version of cold that I never imagined possible. I hear a squeak, twist, scrape, scrape, scrape.
“Dr. Muir, I presume?”
Great. That accent says: Senior-Officer-from-the-former-republic-of-mybuttistan-who-was-clearly-educated-abroad.
I croak, “That’s what my mom calls me, Dr., she’s very proud,” definitely.
He responds with a dry, withholding laugh. “We know …