Dr. Mihankhah

Dr. Mihankhah’s handwriting was far to good for him to be a medical doctor. He pulled his taxi into the drive-way of the VIA Rail Station where two strangers stood one yard apart. A tall, older man stood crookedly while spitting tiny bubbles, slightly puffing his lips. The young girl beside him was watching him with her peripheral vision, her hands wrapped around both straps of her terry-cloth backpack.

Dr. Mihankhah eased his brakes and the older man went quickly to the door. He opened it, threw his blue ruffled knapsack into the back seat and adjusted the beanie on top of his head. His hair was salt and pepper grey but outlining his face were fiery red bristles.

“This car is for Casey,” Dr. Mihankhah called out as he lowered his left window. “Who here is Casey?” The girl approached the cab cautiously, looking at the older man and then at Dr. Mihankhah.

“I’m Cassie,” she answered. The other man looked at her.

“I’m Lloyd,” he said. Lloyd stepped out of the car, parting his bottom lip from the top. “I will call you another car, Lloyd.” But Dr. Mihankhah never did call another car for the impatient man, Lloyd, with his sputtering lips. “It all begins with a confession,” Dr. Mihankhah said to his passenger. He was from Bahrain, a screenwriter with a PhD. He told her to write. “Never stop writing,” he said. But when she got home and she went to her desk, her pencil was broken and she set it down.