trek blog

“Open your mouth.”

Julian obeyed.

Maddie appeared in the doorway with two cups of coffee, but by then, Sloan’s hands were in Julian’s mouth, flossing out particles of buttery scone from in-between Julian’s teeth. Julian tasted latex, felt the warm thickness of Sloan’s fingers between his gums and the insides of his cheek.

“Don’t know if you had a chance to look around some of the pictures in here.”

“Uhhh—”

Sloan laughed. “This clinic’s been with my family for a long time. When you get a chance to look around properly, you’ll see that pretty much everyone who was anyone in my family—and that’s most of them—are pictured on these walls. The fella with the long, gray beard, that’s Ole’ Brandon Sloane. You’ll notice there’s lots of little boys named Brandon in Ravenwood. That’s how beloved he is. He was the youngest of seven brothers—came out to California all the way from New York with nothing but a pickaxe and the shirt on his back. He was one-of-a-kind, a true American. People used to come out from all over to see him, consult with him. The Pinkertons were regular guests here during Brandon’s time. He was a giant…Then he died, his son Samson continued the Sloane traditions, our legacy of service, fought in World War One. After Samson, his son Phineas—that's my father—fought in World War II, went toe-to-toe with Hitler. As for me, as soon as I was old enough, I went to Vietnam. That's where I became a man, Julian. Killed my first goo—uh, guerilla soldier. Met Colonel Fujisaki, my mentor.”

Sloan paused and leaned forward, frowning as if something in Julian’s teeth had caught his attention. Their faces were already very close together, and Julian felt strangely conscious of how close Sloan's lips were to Julian's own. Close enough that he could smell the latex of Sloan’s gloves, the heated metal of his instruments, the odor of stale coffee from Sloan’s breath. "One minute," Sloan mumbled, and then one of Sloan's gloved fingers was inside his mouth, warm and rubbery, probing at the base of his palate. Julian opened his mouth wider, conscious of the drool collecting at the recesses.

“Hold on,” Sloan said, adding another finger.

"Sloan—" he tried to say, but what came out was incomprehensible. His jaw was beginning to ache, a string of drool trailed down from his lip.

Sloan pulled his hand back. "Hmm…nothing," he mused. "Can never be too sure."

"What?" Julian asked, licking back the saliva falling from his mouth. He grabbed Sloan's suction device from the tray to clear the saliva himself. His cheeks still ached, and he could still taste Sloan’s glove in his mouth.

"I thought I saw an irregularity in the hard palate," Sloan said airily. "Turned out to be nothing." He drew a Kleenex and dabbed lightly at Julian's lips.

Julian sat perplexed.

“We’re big on tradition here, Julian. Who we are and what made us. Do you have a strong gag?”

"What?"

Sloan shrugged. "Some people have a strong gag. They don't like having fingers anywhere inside their mouth."