About three hours later, Margery parks outside a clinic and helps me walk inside.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” she asks me.
“Three months maybe? Six? It’s not always this bad.”
She makes a small sound I can’t decipher, and picks up the pace. We walk past the receptionist and down the hall to an exam room.
“Sit,” she tells me, so I do.
Another Margery comes in and closes the door. She takes off her white coat, looks me over, and says nothing. She exchanges looks with Driver-Margery, and then unlocks a drawer by the sink.
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