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Raymond Luczak 225 The Audiologist The thick gray windows never reveal her shadowy figure. The audiologist always has something to conceal behind those windows. She only reveals to Mom how I did this year. I steal a look at my audiogram and her checklist. The thick gray windows never reveal her shadowy figure: The audiologist and I are at war over my ears, my headphones, my chair. First she makes a beep, or a low roar— and then I’m at war with myself. Did I truly hear that or not? My hand shoots up in the air, volleying against her score over my ears, my headphones, my chair. The thick walls absorb my silence. I cannot hear anything from outside, except through my ear-burning, tense headphones. They absorb her silence. I wrestle with my ears, my conscience, as I close my eyes to listen, decide. The thick walls absorb my silence as her sounds come from the other side. ...

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