The Ninth of October

(A walk-in clinic in Portland, two hours past Lena's appointment time.) Nurse: Lena? Sorry about the wait. It's been that kind of Thursday. Lena: It's fine. I brought a book. I haven't opened it, but I brought it. Nurse: Okay. So, headaches. Since when? Lena: March. Maybe February. Nurse: Every day? Lena: Most days. They start behind my right eye, around four in the afternoon. Nurse: On a scale of one to ten? Lena: Six. Eight if I'm on the bus. Nurse: Are you taking anything for them? Lena: Whatever's in the shop. The cheap drug, the one in the green box. It works for about an hour. Nurse: How much sleep are you getting? Lena: Four hours. Five on Sundays. Nurse: Four. Lena: I've got the shop till six and the cleaning job after. Nurse: Since February? Lena: Since March. The shop cut my hours, so I took the second job. Nurse: Right. When was your last full day off? A whole day, nothing in it. Lena: …That's a strange question. Nurse: It's on my list. Lena: October. The ninth. My sister and I drove out to the coast and ate fries in the car because it was raining the entire time. Nurse: You remember the date. Lena: I remember the whole day. Nurse: Okay. I can give you something stronger for the pain, and I'll book you in for a proper check next week. But I want to be honest with you. The pills aren't the treatment. Lena: What's the treatment? Nurse: October.