“But let’s have a quick look at you anyway,” he says.
He has me sit on the edge of the exam table and shines a light into my pupils, just like the doctor in Greenvale did after the accident. He checks my reflexes, has me read from an eye chart, asks me random trivia questions—what day it is, who is president, when I was born.
He tells me at the end that I have no signs of a concussion.
“A CT would give us more certainty, but…” He trails off, thinking. “I think we’d better leave it up to your doctor. I’ll send him a note. It’s Dr. Langley, right?”
I nod, realizing I won’t be able to keep this from my parents any longer. If he can’t help me, what choice do I have?
“I wish I could have been more helpful,” Dr. Overton says, giving me a rueful smile as I leave.
When I get back to the reception area, there’s an old man in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine. And suddenly it hits me that there are people in this town who come to a place like this. I try to imagine a world of normal-looking people who’ve visited Overton. I try to imagine them all being okay with the words I read in the pamphlet while I was waiting—“splices” and “removals” and “shavings.”
The man who’s training is sitting at the computer while the receptionist fiddles with the coffeemaker on the far side of the counter. She sees me and starts to come over, but the man shakes his head.
“I can do this one,” he says. “Hi, Addison. So you saw Dr. Hunt today?”
“No, I think it was Dr. Overton.”
The man frowns at the computer screen, his face scrunched up as he clicks around. “Oh, my mistake. Dr. Hunt was last time. Okay, so did Dr. Overton give you…”
Everything freezes.
“Last time?” I croak.
The man’s eyes widen. He barely has enough time to blink before the receptionist is back, pushing him out of theway.
“Brendan, you have the wrong patient’s file open.” She looks at the screen, then smiles at me. That same warm smile that somehow makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong. “He had the wrong file open,” she repeats, apologetic. “Did Dr. Overton say you needed a follow-up?”
I shake my head, but my throat is closing up. “What did he mean, last time? Have I been here before?”
Her smile stays in place.HEIDI, her name tag reads. “Like I said, it was the wrong file. I can’t reveal anything about other patients.”
“I had the wrong file open,” Brendan blurts out again.
“Nice meeting you, Addison,” Heidi says, smiling broadly, but there is something tight about it now. Something off.
Nicemeetingyou.She says it with such force, like she wants to convey more than she’s saying.
This was your first time here.
We’ve just met.
I mumble a goodbye and stumble outside, through the parking lot. I sit in the car, blinking at the setting sun, and now it’s Brendan’s words echoing in my mind.
Dr. Hunt was last time.
It wasn’t another patient’s file. I saw it in their reactions.
Heidi’s immediate coolness, Brendan’s panic.
Dr. Overton’s chart that was thicker than it should have been.
I’ve been here before.
I’ve been to Overton before.
BEFORE
