In the reception space, Emma attempted to express regret. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “Dad’s going to be mad.”
“Let him,” I stated, forcing my register steadfast. “Your body doesn’t lie to make someone comfortable.”
Sorting proceeded rapidly once the attendant observed Emma’s pigmentation and detected the phrase “worsening.” They extracted lifeblood, inspected vital signs, pressed gently upon her midsection. Emma flinched so severely moisture leaped into her eyes.
A youthful clinician, Dr. Allison Brooks, authorized diagnostic visualization. “We’re going to get answers,” she pledged.
When the visualization concluded, we delayed in a minor chamber that aromaed of disinfectant and heated blankets. Emma sat with her knees gathered upward, digits twisting the border of her hooded garment.
Subsequently Dr. Brooks returned—too prematurely.
She secured the panel behind her and moderated her register as though she did not desire the corridor to attend.
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