“Good.” Marjorie completed the information sheets and returned them to the receptionist, then subtly glanced at her watch. She hadn’t experienced any real discomfort in hours and was beginning to feel like a phony. Again, the thought of skipping out of the appointment sprang to mind. Sheer stupidity, of course. If nothing else, it would be interesting to stick around and meet this doctor who seemed to be a paragon of virtue. From what Lydia and the two patients in the waiting room had said, Dr. Sam Bretton was a cross between Brad Pitt and Mother Teresa.

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” the receptionist told her.

“No problem,” Marjorie answered softly, wondering if the woman had read her mind.

—

A few minutes turned out to be fifteen. Marjorie was escorted into a small exam room by a nurse who was dressed as though she were shooting a scene from a daytime soap opera. Her gray hair was perfectly styled in a bouffant, and even after a full day in the office, not a single strand was out of place.

Marjorie stopped just inside the room, her mind whirling. She’d been in her teens when she’d last seen a physician. Over the years there’d been minor bouts with the flu and a bad cold now and again, but overall she’d been incredibly healthy. There might have been times when she should have seen a physician and hadn’t, mainly because she wasn’t particularly fond of anyone poking around her body, but usually she could take care of herself just fine.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” the nurse instructed, gesturing toward the upholstered examination table.

Reluctantly, Marjorie walked into the room and pressed her backside against the oblong exam table, her elbows resting on top of the padded cover. She crossed her ankles as though she posed this way regularly, hoping to give the picture of utter nonchalance. Chagrined, she realized she’d failed miserably.

Thankfully the nurse didn’t seem to notice. “What seems to be the problem?”

Marjorie shrugged. “A little pain in my side. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“We’ll let Dr. Sam decide that.” The woman pulled out a digital thermometer and, before Marjorie could protest, stuck it under her tongue. Motioning with her hand, the nurse told Marjorie to sit on the end of the table and skillfully took her blood pressure.

“Go ahead and get undressed,” the nurse said afterward. She leaned over and pulled a paper gown from a cupboard. “When you’ve finished, put this on. The doctor will be with you in a couple minutes.” She left, quietly closing the door.