Page 5 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

I stare at the screen.

Tomorrow. Neuro test. Brachial plexus.

I have done many disappointing things in my life. I have eaten cereal from a mug because all my bowls were in the sink. I have highlighted an entire paragraph and called it studying. I have once confidently said “left kidney” while pointing to a liver on a cadaver model, which, in my defense, was having a bad lighting day.

But this is worse. Because I forgot.

I simply, completely, majestically forgot.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Me: I forgot.

I hit send before I can dress it up. Then I regret it immediately, because those two words look insane on their own. Like a confession. Like I have forgotten a child at a gas station.

Marco replies in three seconds.

Marco: You forgot the neuro test?

Me: In my defense, my ovaries are currently running a government-funded science fair.

Marco: That is not a defense accepted by Dr. Singh.

Me: Dr. Singh has never been personally victimized by fertility hormones.

Marco: I’m not asking him.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Petra is still standing there. Not looking at my phone, exactly. Petra would never do something as crude as look directly at my phone. She’s simply observing the existence of my phone with the full moral weight of a Scandinavian courtroom.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

This is a lie, but it’s a small one. A travel-sized lie. The kind they let you bring on planes.

“My classmate is reminding me I have a neuro test tomorrow.”

Petra’s face doesn’t move. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“The procedure is in three days.”

“I know.”

“And this will not interfere with your preparation?”

I smile.

It’s not my cutest smile. My cutest smile is reserved for free dessert and people who say, “Don’t worry, I already made coffee.” This is my clinic smile. Neat. Calm. Slightly dead behind the eyes.

“It won’t interfere.”

Petra holds my gaze for one second too long. “Good.”

Good. Everything in Alester Chandler’s world is good.