The waiting room had that smell — antiseptic and old coffee and fear. I’d been here before, but never for myself.
I still had the wristband on from the charity 5K I ran three months ago. Blue plastic, peeling at the edges. It felt like a lie now.
A young woman across from me kept rubbing her belly. She looked maybe twenty-five. We didn't speak but we were both counting the ceiling tiles.
Then the fire alarm went off. Everyone just sat there. Nobody moved. A nurse came in and said it was a drill. She looked embarrassed.
For ten minutes we shuffled out into the cold air. I saw her standing alone, arms crossed. I said, 'It'll be okay, honey.' I don't know why I said it.
Back inside, the results came. Benign. I cried right there. The nurse handed me a tissue and I thought about all the other rooms like this one.
That young woman was still waiting when I left. I wanted to go back and tell her the ceiling tiles are twenty-four. I'd counted enough for both of us.