When I was young, a white male doctor held my face while numbing my left eye with anesthetic drops. My hair pressed down under his palm, under his wedding band. He injected the Triamcinolone into the sclera, and into the brown skin around the eye, the most delicate skin, look up look up he always said. Look up. He was telling me how bad my eyes were getting, that I would need more surgery soon and that I should be more aggressive with the Durezol drops, the Prednisone, Mycophenolate, Methotrexate, by mouth, and the Humira injection into the left thigh. That he expected me to take it all more seriously, do you want to go blind? He asked this with a tone that didn’t seem appropriate. I didn’t respond, because he continued speaking soon after, there was no time to tell him, no, no I don’t. He had eight kids, and his wife didn’t wear makeup. He told me, I don’t really care for makeup on women, my wife, she doesn’t wear it. He spoke quickly and I sometimes sped up the way I spoke to mimic him. I stopped wearing makeup. When I visited we would move into several rooms. He would put the yellow dye in my veins and immediately warn me about how my pee would be yellow. Not the normal yellow of a dehydrated person, but highlighter yellow. Yellow yellow, he always said, even though we had done this many times. I already knew. He stared at my arms while he took the anagram. He never asked how to pronounce my name. I followed him into another room. He had a certain walk, hips forward, feet slightly turned in. A swaying walk. I copied him sometimes as I followed behind, to pass the time. We moved into a third examination room. I sat across from him. There was a pause in this part of our interaction; I think he expected me to elaborate. So we would sit in this silence. It was a long time to sit that way, staring at each other. He looked very serious whenever he finally spoke, he would tell me the news, that the eyes were getting worse, the medicine hasn’t been taken as directed, by mouth. There’s a lot of inflammation in the back of the eye, and in the front, he said, and it’s not looking good. I noticed that his eyes were two different colors. The left eye, my left as I was facing him, was slightly darker than the right, my right. I had never noticed this. If you don’t take better care of the eyes, you will eventually lose them, he always said. Your eyes will be cut out. Before leaving I took an object with me from his office. Sunglasses. I left without scheduling the next appointment. When I was young, after a doctor’s appointment, I would walk to the YMCA pool. I would arrive sometime in the afternoon. I would change in the locker room. On one of those occasions, my navy-blue one-piece was missing. The entire gym bag had been forgotten, probably in the farthest corner of my bedroom. I asked people in the locker room if they could spare a bathing suit. Some of them didn’t look at me, and others looked at me but did not respond. I decided to swim with what I had—panties, the high-waisted white cotton panties with black dots, and the light-gray translucent bra. I took off my things. I took off my t-shirt and my bracelets, the gold studs my grandmama had given me, my rings. I moved toward the pool in my white-and-black cotton underwear, in my see-through bra, high up on my toes, a relevé. I used to like the smell of chlorine. I sat poolside only for a moment, my bare thighs on the tile. My feet touching the cold water. I went in. I floated. The people swimming (three women, one man) looked lonely. I floated and thought about my eyes. I looked at the horrible lonely bodies. I thought about a man telling me that I could go blind, about how a man pressed his hand down against my hair, how some men might have a lighter brown eye and a darker brown eye. When I got out of the pool, I removed the wet panties, the wet bra. I threw them away in the nearby garbage. When I was young, I used to avoid the mirrors, but that day I caught a glimpse of myself. I don’t want to say what I thought of it now. I got dressed. I put on my pants but left them unbuttoned: the turtleneck, the rings, and the stud earrings. My damp hair wet my shoulders, which dripped down to my lower back and eventually to my thighs and down my calves. After the pool, I walked. I walked for a long time and cannot remember what I thought about. I can’t remember the temperature outside, the season, or even how many blocks I strode or any of the stores I might have entered. I remember only the discovery of my wallet being gone, dropped somewhere between the doctor’s office and the pool, or between the pool and where I found myself then. I cried for a few minutes on the sidewalk. People bumped into me from behind. It was rush hour. The third wallet lost. I didn’t have the patience or energy to retrace my steps, I couldn’t say why. I decided to remove things again: the pants, to remove my shirt, and my rings, my earrings. I placed them against the remnants of a burned chair. It seemed like the right thing to do. It seemed I did not need these items as I walked to the Holland Tunnel, through its entrance and directly along the Holland Tunnel, smelling of chlorine. It took me one hour and thirty-six minutes to walk its length. On the evening news they called me The Tunnel Lady. There was a documentary made about me, edited with bystander cellphone footage, a short film, only twelve minutes long. A man and I recently watched the film together. Before it began, the words “Pirating is not a victimless crime” flashed across the black screen. We couldn’t get past this warning, a seemingly insignificant part of the picture, and we rewound it to watch it again. I pressed pause; the writing was white and bold against a black background. We laughed hard when we saw it. Still laughing, his braids covered his face when he said, but I don’t think there are true victims. No one dies from pirating, the production companies make billions, trillions, what comes after trillions? What are the ethics of piracy? “Digital theft harms the economy” the film told us in smaller writing underneath, always white. More laughter, we couldn’t stop laughing: it was almost like coughing or speaking, using the larynx, the lungs, an exhalation of air. We pressed play with our thumbs, both of our thumbs on the button, his and mine—it’s quite difficult to press a button with another person. Finally the film began: we saw someone walking, walking through the Holland Tunnel. A woman. She seemed young and she walked naked between the traffic. Her body was long, her knees and elbows ashy, she wore sunglasses. This film was not edited well, it seemed uneventful, but the woman was moving at a good pace and we knew she would make it to New Jersey. There was no score set to the film, only the honking and nothing else. Sometimes she moved slowly, other times she moved into a jog. There are two tubes under the Hudson River, I explained as the film continued, an east-west mechanical ventilation, with fans that blow wind around, and something, something changes the air down there, so that the, um, the carbon monoxide from the car exhausts doesn’t asphyxiate anyone, so it doesn’t suffocate any of the drivers. We paused the film, our two thumbs pressing, the woman frozen in her walk, her long arms swaying. And the striking breasts, filled and frozen. And he asked, but how do they make the tunnel, with tubes underwater? You can’t control water. I didn’t give him a response, I pressed play with my thumb, the right thumb, and I didn’t wait for his thumb. The woman was walking again, she didn’t have time to waste—with her sunglasses on and with her desolate arms swinging.