The further “diagnostics” consisted of two chairs at opposite ends of a long hallway. I was placed in one, the doctor seated himself on the other.

“Stand up and walk to me,” he commanded.
“No.”
“Why not?” he asked mildly.
“Why should I?” I crossed my arms. Dr. Leiz was growing frustrated; his knuckles were white from gripping the chair arms so tightly.
“Weren’t you taught by your crazy parents to, at least, obey your respected elders?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Yes. However, I do not respect you.” Quite frankly, that was true. How could I respect a demanding control freak?
“Come here this instant, you naughty, wicked child!” he barked.
“No!”
“Now!” His face was turning from ripe tomato to sunburned beet.
“Make me!” I screeched, turning away from him. I must’ve sounded like a two-year-old, but I didn’t want to show this doctor I would give into his demands, silly as they may be.
He threw me an icy glare. “Then I will,” he hissed, voice tottering on the frayed edge into wickedness.