We wait for approximately a year before the nurse calls us back to the consultation room, and for about a lifetime before a short woman in a big sweater dress appears through the door.

“Hi there,” she says. “I’m Dr. Howard.”

She shakes Mom’s and Dad’s hands, then looks at me and smiles. “You must be Emma,” she says. “How are you today?”

“Okay,” I say, because according to Mom that’s what you say when someone asks how you are, even though (also according to Mom) you are also not supposed to lie.

Sometimes you just can’t win.

Dr. Howard gestures to the table, covered in crinkly white paper, and I sit down on it. Dad and Mom both stand beside me, ignoring the chair in the corner. “So,” the doctor says, “what seems to be the problem?”

“Well, um, I started to notice these spots,” I say. “Like, white spots.”

“On her toes first,” Mom says. “Right, Emma? And then on your arms.”

“And I think there are some really tiny ones above my eyebrows,” I add, not looking at Mom. I haven’t mentioned those to her.

Dr. Howard blinks. “And when did you start noticing them?”

I think back to Gram’s funeral. “A couple weeks ago. But there was only one then. On my left toe. And then a week or so later, there were a lot more. Or at least that’s when I noticed them.”

I see her studying the skin around my eyebrows. Her face is impossible to read.

“Right,” she says. “Well, how about we give you a bit of space to change into a robe, and then I’ll look at those spots, okay?”

She hands me a robe and tugs the curtain around the bed. As quickly as I can, I take off my jeans and shirt, then shrug into the robe.

“Ready,” I call.

Dr. Howard pulls the curtain back. She examines the right leg first, then the left. She even looks at the bottoms of my feet before doing my arms and stomach. As she runs her fingers along my shoulders, I wonder if she can feel how hard my heart is beating. Every now and then, she hesitates over an area and looks at it through a magnifying glass. She runs her fingers through my scalp and finishes by studying my face again.

While she examines me, she asks me questions in a bright voice, about school and stuff. It’s almost enough to distract me from the tiny frown I see creep up her face.

“So, what’s wrong with me?” I ask when I feel like I can’t stand not knowing for even one more second.

“You are a perfectly healthy young lady,” Dr. Howard says. “Why don’t you get dressed again, and then we’ll talk? Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, maybe we can step out into the hall for a moment.”