The door opens across the room, and I shift in my seat. A tall, older gentleman steps into the waiting room. He has silver hair combed neatly back, wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose, and a white coat that’s seen better days but has been meticulously mended at the seams. His posture is upright, calm, and well-practiced. His eyes land on me immediately. “Dr. Blake Hart?” he asks.
I stand too quickly. The room tilts a little, not helping the unease in my stomach at all.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Baylor,” he greets me warmly. “Come on back.”
I follow him down a narrow hallway, walls lined with faded posters about flu shots and blood pressure awareness, as the floor squeaks beneath our feet.
“So,” he says conversationally as we walk, “thank you for coming in. We don’t get many applicants willing to make the trip.”
I nod. “I’m glad to be here.”
He opens the door to his office. It’s small, cluttered, and overflowing with file folders stacked in precarious towers. A framed photo of what looks like a younger Dr. Baylor witha group of smiling nurses hangs slightly crooked behind his desk.
“We’re entirely funded by grants and donations,” he shares, gesturing for me to sit. “Which means we have the best of nothing. The equipment is outdated, supplies are limited, staff are stretched thin, and the pay is… well,” he grins wryly, “horrible.”
“You really sell it.” I smile broadly. “It’s what I’m used to and exactly what I’m looking for.”
“That’s good to hear!” he exclaims, his eyes brightening. “Now, tell me…”
He asks a question. I know he does. I see his mouth move. I hear a sound. But the words don’t register.
My stomach clenches violently, a sudden, overwhelming surge of nausea preparing to erupt up my throat. Sweat beads at my temples as I fight against the inevitable. I swallow hard, my mouth filling with saliva.
“I’m sorry.” My voice comes out thin. “What was that?”
Dr. Baylor pauses, studying me more carefully now. “Are you feeling okay?”
I force a nod. “I think it’s just bad takeout last night.”
He frowns slightly but continues, asking another question. Something about experience, I think.
I open my mouth, but the nausea surges again, fiercer this time. My body reacts on instinct. I shove myself up from the chair, barely managing to pivot before I drop to my knees beside his desk and retch violently into the small trash can.My hands shake as my stomach empties itself withbrutal insistence, my eyes watering and bile burning my throat.
This cannot be happening.I am mortified beyond measure.
Dr. Baylor is at my side instantly, one steady hand on my shoulder. “Easy. It’s all right.”
When it finally stops, I slump back on my heels, breathing hard and cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I amsosorry.” My voice is hoarse. “I didn’t… This has never…”
“Don’t apologize,” he states firmly. “Let’s get you checked out, just to be safe.” He helps me to my feet and leads me next door to an exam room, where a nurse joins us. She is an older woman with kind eyes and a soft voice.
“I’m Lydia,” she introduces herself, smiling gently as she wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “We’ll be quick.”
They move efficiently and professionally. Blood pressure. Pulse. Temperature. Respirations. Everything methodical, reassuring. “See?” I say weakly when they finish. “Just a little food poisoning.”
Dr. Baylor doesn’t look convinced. “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
“No,” I scoff immediately, shaking my head.
Lydia glances at me with a knowing look. “Are you sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“Are you using contraception without fail?”
My gaze drops to my arm, staring through my shirt to where that tiny implant used to be. I close my eyes and exhale slowly, the truth settling heavy in my chest. “No.”
