You finally made it to the campus medical center, a non-descript, squat, single-story building set on a side street. You parked in the small visitors' lot and made your way inside.
Inside, it was the familiar setting of a doctor’s office waiting room. Thin, institutional carpet. Uncomfortable straight-back plastic chairs. You made your way to the admissions desk and the student sitting behind it. The girl, clad in scrubs, glanced up from her textbook as you approached.
“Excuse me,” you said. “I’m David Hightower. I’m here to pick up my daughter, Katie.”
The girl’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Mr. Hightower. Yes! I’ll let Dr. Cushing know that you’re here.” She picked up a phone, punched in an extension and spoke quickly. “I have Katie’s father here for her. Yeah, the girl from the school tour.” She paused. “OK,” she said, and put the phone down. She turned to you. “Someone will be up in just a moment.”
The receptionist’s reaction had gotten you nervous. You thought Katie was ready to go; you hadn’t expected to speak with a doctor. “Is everything OK?” you asked.
“I’ll let Dr. Cushing explain,” the girl said. She turned back to her textbook just as a woman wearing a white lab coat over a colorful blouse and skirt stepped through the swinging doors that led back to the patient rooms. She was probably in her mid-30s, a little younger than you, and had a mane of frizzy brown hair held back by a colorful headband that matched the scarf she wore.
“Mr. Hightower,” she said, extending one hand and adjusting her glasses with the other. “I’m Dr. Octavia Cushing. If you’ll just follow me, we need to go…
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