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Post the marathon results and finish line photo on OnlyFans. Then ask Dr. Reeves what the colleagues said about the raw scan files. Then text Diane about the marathon and ask if she wants to run one too. Suggest to Dr. Reeves she observes you and Marcus in your apartment for a more accurate picture for the case study. She agrees. Increase all habits to the max. Piss on floor before leaving.

Lena sits on the exam table with the medal around her neck. The ribbon disappears into the fat folds at her collarbone — the gold disc resting on the upper belly, catching the fluorescent light. She picks up her phone. The yellow nails open OnlyFans. The finish line photo is already in her camera roll — 890 pounds crossing the arch, the bib dusty with crumbs, the vodka bottle empty in the fanny pack, the joint roach still behind her ear, the face calm and unbothered and first place. She posts it with the caption: *Riverside Marathon. 26.2 miles. 1 hour 53 minutes. First place. 890 pounds. Barefoot. Naked. Ate chips, drank vodka, smoked weed while I ran. The body knows what it wants. The body won.* The notification goes out to 1,487 subscribers. The chat explodes within seconds.

Dr. Reeves is still writing when Lena puts the phone down. The pen is moving fast — the blue flag page, new notes, the marathon data being squeezed into the margins. Lena watches the pen. The yellow nails drum the belly.

"What did the colleagues say about the raw scan files?" Lena asks.

The pen slows. Dr. Reeves looks up. The fifth expression has settled into something permanent now — not hunger, not shock, but the fixed stare of someone whose professional foundation has been quietly cracking for months and who has stopped trying to patch it.

"Dr. Pradhan confirmed the raw files match the processed images. He said the muscle fiber density is — his word was *impossible*. He said there is no known mechanism that produces this level of muscle adaptation in a sedentary patient at any weight, let alone 890 pounds." She pauses. The pen taps once.

"He wants to meet you. Both of them do. Harmon and Pradhan. I told them that would require your consent."

Lena considers this. The hum is warm. The body is comfortable.

"Maybe later," she says. "Keep going."

She texts Diane from the exam table. The yellow nails move fast: *I ran a marathon Saturday. First place. 1:53. Ate chips and drank vodka and smoked while I ran. 890 pounds.* The response comes in a minute. The underneath voice in text: *I know. I saw the post. Carl showed me. I watched the finish line video four times.* Then a second text: *Do you think I could run one?* Then a third: *Don't answer that. I know the answer.* Lena types back: *You should.* The three dots appear and disappear. Then: *I'll find one.*

Lena looks at Dr. Reeves. The pen has stopped. The notebook is open. The fifth expression is fixed.

"You should see me at home," Lena says. The words are easy. The body is easy. Everything is easy.

"The case study describes what I do. But you've never seen where I do it. The apartment. Marcus. The food. The mess. The bathroom. You should come. You should watch. You should write what you actually see, not what I tell you in an exam room."

Dr. Reeves puts the pen down. The fifth expression shifts — not away, but deeper. The clinical voice fights something underneath it and loses.

"When?" she says.

"Whenever. I'm always there. I'm always doing it."

"Saturday," Dr. Reeves says. "I'll come Saturday morning."

Lena nods. The hum is warm. She stands — the exam table exhales beneath 890 pounds — and the body moves toward the door. The yellow toenails click the tile. She stops. The hum shifts. Not the warm hum. The low one. The one that pools. She looks at the exam room floor — white tile, clinical, clean. She spreads her legs. The belly is enormous but the body knows what it wants and the body doesn't hesitate. The piss hits the tile in a thick steady stream, the yellow pooling outward in a warm spreading lake that reaches the base of the exam table and keeps going. Dr. Reeves is behind her. The pen is in her hand. She doesn't say stop. She writes something down.