Chapter 5
It was the same receptionist. The same one, I swear, who was asking me the same damn questions in the same flat, emotionless voice. She’d probably taken a course — Pacification 101: Dealing with the Distraught Customer. My fingernails dug into my palms as I fought the urge to scream. I wanted to scream until I ran out of breath, until I fell, blue-faced and exhausted, to the cold, hard floor.
“I don’t know his Social Security number.”
The receptionist, Miss Prozac of 1999, managed a cool, dispassionate smile, but her fingers hadn’t budged from the keyboard.
“I don’t have a clue about his health insurance! Look in your computer! Look up my mother. My poor, dead mother.” I slapped the counter with the flat of my hand. “Look up Lois Alexander. The information’s the same.”
In mi
