“I don’t want you to panic,” she says from her office and I am instantly alert.
“It isn’t as though I am writing up my will” she continues, and my heart is suddenly hitting my sternum hard enough to hurt. Adrenalin pours into my system, but there is nothing to fight and nowhere to flee to.
“I’d like to set you up as the legacy contact for my Facebook account,” she says. And I panic. Of course I panic, how can I not panic? There’s a roaring in my ears and the little voice that has been my constant reminder is suddenly replaced by a mental scream of rage and fear and anger. I want to leap up and down. I want to hit things with a stick until they break. I want to run into her office and stand guard over her and battle whatever threatens her to the death, or to carry her far, far away from danger. I want to spit defiance at the foe, to rend it and kill it and then piss on the corpse and dance in triumph. Man kill danger! Man protect! Man fight!
“Of course,” I reply, careful to keep my voice steady and light. As if it were a simple request. As if she asked this sort of thing every day. As if it was not an issue at all. “Just tell me what I need to do.”