Slowly, the arms uncrossed. Elena listened to his heart—a steady, racecar beat—and checked his "super-vision." When it came time for the shots, she didn't call them shots. She called them "software updates for his immunity-shields."
"Good to know," Elena said, pulling a "light-saber" (her flashlight) from her pocket. "I actually need to check your internal engine today. If the force field is too strong, I won't be able to hear if your heart is beating like a drum or a racecar." pediatrician
Dr. Elena Vance’s office was more of a technicolor dreamscape than a sterile clinic. Hand-drawn dinosaurs lived on the walls, and the "Scale of Bravery" by the door featured a cartoon lion that grew fluffier the taller a patient stood. Slowly, the arms uncrossed