I keep my sunglasses on at the reception desk and try to plaster on a friendly smile. “I don’t, but I was wondering if you could help me.” I take a breath and keep my voice as steady as I can, despite the panic rotating in my chest like a ceiling fan on maximum speed. “I delivered my son at Prentice in Chicago, but I live in Elmhurst now. He had the digital footprint done there, but their system got hacked and he’s no longer showing up.” I play my trump card. “I’m blind, so having the digital scan is critical in case something were to ever happen. I was just wondering if I could get him scanned and entered into the system since this is our primary care?”

“You’ll have to make an appointment.” The woman taps a few computer keys. “Our next available is…” More pecking. “September twentieth.”

“That’s over a month away,” I say.

“That’s our earliest available.” She stops typing.

I weigh my options. Why didn’t I just start with some version of the truth? “I actually don’t need an appointment. I just need the scan.”

“I understand, but we don’t do the scan in this office. That’s actually done by a nurse when the baby is born—not at checkups. They can do it if he’s here for a well-child visit, but that’s all. You might try maternity?”

“Thanks.”

I back out of the office and ask someone in the hall which way to the maternity ward. In the hall, I extract my phone and research the company who actually does these scans: CertaScan. I think about calling them to see if they could access the database but decide to try maternity first. I locate the floor and suite number and figure out where I’m going thanks to a woman in the hallway. Memories terrorize me as I recall Jackson’s birth only three months ago. I rip away the anguish and approach yet another front desk.

“Hi.” I replay the same story I told pediatrics.

“Have a seat and let me see what I can do.”

The lies are just getting started, but I tell myself it’s what I have to do to get proof. An idea blooms while I wait. After twenty minutes, I’m called back and a kind nurse—Beatrice—leads me into what I assume to be a standard exam room. I’ve left the stroller by the front and have the baby on my hip, the cane announcing my impairment so I don’t have to.

“Just have a seat.” She closes the heavy wooden door, and I bypass what I know to be the crinkly paper to have a seat in the chair against the wall. “So what brings you here today?”