The digital clock on the stove showed ten past eight.
I had exactly twenty minutes to get to the medical clinic, but my car keys remained untouched on the counter next to the breadbox.
The drive to work was a blur of wet asphalt, red brake lights, and the steady sweep of the windshield wipers.
The reception desk at the clinic was busy enough to keep my mind occupied until the lunch hour, with patients filing in to escape the cold dampness of the Ohio autumn. I checked in three appointments, filed insurance claims for a local schoolteacher, and tried not to think about the empty ledger on my screen.
At half past twelve, I finally sat in the breakroom with a turkey sandwich that tasted like cardboard.Sarah, the billing coordinator, sat across from me at the laminate table, peeling an orange with her thumbnail.
“You look like you are waiting for bad news, Daniella,” she said, tossing a curl of orange peel into the trash.
