The problem was this word “anti-venom.” It sounded made up, like it was from a comic book.

“I’m sorry, but we just don’t have anti-venom,” the doctor said mockingly. “We would have to order some.”

“I’m going to die,” I groaned, but she was unforgiving. I removed my scarf to reveal a collection of impressive lacerations, bruises, and bites.

The doctor’s face clouded. She crossed her arms. “Whatever kind of snake did that—you’re lucky to be alive. And to not be in jail. It’s illegal to keep snakes like that.”

I put my scarf back on and sighed. “My girlfriend did it.”

The doctor misunderstood. “When she gets mad she turns into a cobra,” I clarified. In gruesome detail, I told the doctor about her metamorphosis: how her soft skin turns to icy scales, the dead gaze in her otherwise expressive eyes, the expansive hood that frames her face when she is particularly agitated, the disgusting hiss and forked tongue leaking from her mouth, the sinister way she slithers and thrashes about.

The doctor uncrossed her arms and leaned toward my ear. “You’re already dead,” she whispered, a subtle rattle emanating from somewhere deep inside her white lab coat.