On this particular day, in this particular PhD's office, Emmy Chappelle was convinced that there was nothing that would ever make her happier than smashing Dr. Regan's irritating fountain to smithereens. But of course, people do not smash fountains, no matter how irked they are, and the only thing she could do was sit there and wait while bouncing her knees impatiently. No amount of knee bouncing would bring Dr. Regan's technician to the door any faster, however, and the restless act soon failed to ease Emmy's rumpled spirits. She scowled darkly, wishing herself a thousand miles away from that office.
I'm not that sick. They're not going to find anything. And then I'll have to pay for this silly visit and the flight out here, and my hotel, and the taxi, and the expensive meals out, all without good reason! She huffed inwardly, flipping through a People magazine where Kim Kardashian and Jenifer Lopez were having a fashion faceoff. The fountain continued to trickle-drip-drip, gratingly. At last a woman in scrubs opened the door. Emmy tossed her magazine onto the nearby table and started to stand, her heart racing.
"Emily Warner?" The nurse called in a dull voice.
Emmy sank into her seat again as a white-haired woman rose from a stiff chair and shuffled toward the technician. "Right this way, Mrs. Warner."
Grudgingly turning back to her article, Emmy sighed, feeling worry tugging at the back of her mind in spite of herself.
What if I really am sick? What if I'm not losing weight because of stress or bad metabolism? She slumped lower in the scratchy, stiff, waiting room chair and allowed the worst thought of all to seep into her mind.
What if I do have cancer?
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