Not that I want to get into a “whose vision is worse” showdown with a geriatric, but seriously. I’m just glad I can see the judgy old man across from me giving me his smug look. It’s not that I want to fit in somewhere as unimpressive as this, but come on. Doesn’t he know I’m his people? My mom pats my knee, like the bouncing is bothering her too.

“Mr. Emerson?” A woman in Pepto-pink scrubs is looking expectantly into the sea of old people, her gaze scanning from one side of the room to the other. I don’t react right away, because no one ever calls me mister. I’m guessing she didn’t notice my age, because she looks surprised when I pop up. And a little sad. “This way,” she says. Her nametag says Angela, and she leads me and Mom past the half-circle reception desk and down a long hallway. She’s walking so slow I have to force myself not to run her over. A side-effect of being a herder of old people, I suppose. “Have a seat.” Angela nods to the big black leather chair.

I was never nervous at the eye doctor before, but now the place basically gives me sweaty palms upon arrival. Mom takes a seat in a chair across from me, under the white rectangle that will display my eye test. Angela sets my folder on the desk.

“I’ll be right back,” she says.

Mom sets her purse on the chair next to her, and rubs her hands together, which she does when she’s nervous. Even though they keep it about ninety degrees in here. She lets out a long stream of air that’s almost a whistle. “You feel good?”

I laugh, because she’s making it sound like I’ve been training for this. Like it’s a big game I’ve been putting in extra hours for. “I feel nauseous.”

She purses her lips like that’s not what she wanted to hear. “Is Olivia coming to dinner?’

The question catches me off guard. Yesterday wasn’t great, and I don’t even know where Olivia and I stand at the moment. But we should probably figure it out before I subject her to a family dinner. She didn’t seem thrilled about it to start with, so I doubt she’s going to be interested in coming now. “She can’t make it this week, but maybe next week?” I can work with a week.

Mom looks disappointed but smiles anyway. “Sounds good, hon.”

Angela returns in all of her Pepto glory, and sits on the little spinning stool next to me.