On a hook behind the x-ray door, or draped flat across the machine's own arm, the lead apron waits in one of two positions and announces itself first by touch: the vinyl skin is always faintly tacky, the weight underneath always heavier than the hand expects, twelve to twenty-five pounds hung on a garment shaped like nothing else worn indoors. It ties at the neck and again at the waist, both cords cheap nylon on an apron whose interior sheeting is worth, by some estimates, several hundred dollars, a ratio nobody comments on. The lead does not lie flat inside the vinyl; run a palm down the front and it registers as dozens of distinct shades of resistance, thicker in a band across the chest and thinner toward the hem, the manufacturer's compromise between coverage and a garment a person can still turn around in.
A thyroid collar, its smaller cousin, clips separately at the throat and is the part patients remember, the cool weight settling just above the collarbone a half second before the machine clicks. Newer literature suggests the apron protects less than it once did, that modern digital sensors need so little radiation the garment has become closer to ritual than shield, worn now as much for the patient's comfort as for the patient's safety. It still hangs on its hook between exposures, waiting to be lifted onto a shoulder that, statistically, may no longer need it, and it is lifted anyway, every time, because taking it off the hook is easier than explaining why.