Leah
The receptionist didn’t offer me water.
I noticed that first.
Not the leather couch. Not the abstract art that probably cost more than my first year at UT. Not the glossy Fairfax Industries logo behind the desk, all steel and glass and quiet money.
The water.
Or the lack of it.
The receptionist had looked at me when I came in and decided exactly what I was before I reached the desk.
Then she told me to wait.
So I waited.
The clock behind her desk ticked like it had an opinion.
She didn’t offer water.
She was friends with Lizzie. I had remembered that on the bus over, sitting with my hands still in my lap, hospital paperwork folded in my bag, nausea sitting low and steady in my stomach like it had moved in and signed a lease.
Friends with Lizzie.
Which meant the waiting me
