The waiting room of Dr. Alistair’s clinic was a controlled misery. Lily sat on a hard, plastic chair, her spine ramrod straight, her hands clenched into fists in her lap so tight her nails dug into her palms. The air was a sterile, recycled hum, scented with a faint, sharp lemon cleaner that did nothing to cut through the cloying, sweet smell of her own fear. Every tick of the wall clock was a hammer blow against her skull.

Her condition was a live wire under her skin. It had started an ...