IN A MOMENT of desperation, it’s amazing the things we become willing to do. Things we never would have even considered before because no way in hell would we ever do them. But then, because of the situation we find ourselves in, we make the proper justifications for it. Anything to avoid looking weak or needing to depend on someone else yet again.
Which is why at close to one in the afternoon, I was making my way across the busy city streets to the seven-story building up ahead. Cars and yellow taxis lined the streets, horns blared when the traffic lights turned green, and people who were likely returning from their lunch breaks swarmed the sidewalks.
Hitching my purse strap higher on my shoulder, I hurried along the sidewalk. I weaved around a middle-aged couple walking at a snail’s pace, narrowly missing a crack in the sidewalk and landing face first on the concrete or twisting my ankle.
But I didn’t want to be late for my first day at my new job.
When I arrived at the office’s sliding door on the top floor, I slowed my pace and took a deep breath. I could still back out of the job. I didn’t have to take it.
But I did need the money. And the money was good.
Scanning the room for surveillance cameras and spotting one in the upper right corner, I walked to a small kiosk on the other side of the vacant front desk and entered the code I had been given the day before.
A solid metal door slid open. I had five seconds to walk through it before it started to close. Now was my chance to turn back.
With a deep breath, I stepped through the doorway inside a small foyer only large enough for the dainty looking loveseat, potted plant, and narrow walkway.
I looked up toward the ceiling and waited for the door to close behind me. When it had fully closed, another door straight ahead opened into a larger room which housed the company’s small diagnostic laboratory that I had been told included five private exam rooms.
Behind the front desk, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties looked at me over her rimless glasses and then rose to her feet. The name tag on her white lab coat read Dr. Howell.
“Hello,” she said, giving me a warm smile. “You must be Jenna Brightwell.”
I nodded and shook her hand as she introduced herself. Then she told me to follow her.
She led me to the second to the last door on the left and then motioned for me to have a seat on the patient’s table in the center of the room.
I slid my purse off my shoulder, set it down beside a stack of magazines on a metal chair in the back corner, and then I hoisted myself up onto the padded patient’s table. Folding my trembling hands in my lap, I took a few calming breaths while I waited for her to return.
A minute later, the doctor walked into the room carrying a metal tray which she set on the counter beside a small sink. She handed me a tiny pill and a small paper cup filled with water.
“Take this, please,” she said.
Without question, I washed the pill down with a few sips of water. She took the cup and replaced it with an empty plastic one that sported a white label with my name on it.
“I’ll need a urine sample up to this line,” she said, indicating with her fingertip the solid black line about half an inch from the bottom. “The women’s bathroom is the last door on the left. When you’re done, set it inside the window above the toilet.”
Nodding, I took the cup and hopped off the table. My legs trembled as I walked out into the hallway and to the next door.
I did as she instructed, then washed my hands in the sink and returned to the exam room.
She glanced up at me as she prepared a needle and tube and said, “Hop back up on the table. I’m almost ready.”
Nodding, I hoisted myself back up and folded my hands in my lap again.
“I’m sure Ms. Montgomery told you all about the daily admission process.”
“Yes, she did,” I replied, my voice shaking slightly.
Seeming not to notice the anxiety in my response or ignoring it, she turned around and set the tray on a wheeled cart beside me. Then she pulled up a round-cushioned stool and began inspecting my arms for veins.
Finally, she tied a thick rubber band around my forearm and told me to make a fist. She rubbed the vein at my wrist.
Taking in a deep breath, I looked away and stared at the counter behind her.
“This will be over soon,” she said as she rubbed a cold swab of rubbing alcohol over my vein.
The acidity of the antiseptic burned my nostrils. I swallowed hard and focused on steady breathing.
When the needle pierced my skin, I sucked in a breath. The doctor released the rubber band and then a moment later she was saying, “All done,” and pressing a cotton ball to my skin. She secured it with a bandage and then turned to the tray.
I sighed with relief as I hugged my arms to my chest.
She labeled the tube and then said, “You’re free to go whenever you’re ready. Ms. Montgomery provided the second code to enter the office?”
“Yes,” I replied with a nod.
“I will run your blood and urine samples through our diagnostics check and then inform Mr. Vaughn of the results.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She smiled warmly and then left the room.
Taking a deep breath, I eased myself off the cushioned table again. Then I grabbed my purse. I dug inside and fished out a two-ounce juice packet and drank it before heading out and down the hall to the second kiosk.
My hand paused over the display panel and my gaze drifted to the camera above my head and to the right. As I stared into the lens, I imagined someone sitting in front of a screen watching me hesitate at the door. If I turned back, if I walked back out and hurried to the elevators, would anyone try to stop me? Would Mr. Vaughn try to change my mind?
Bowing my head, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment.
And then I punched in the code.
