“My father promised to sign the papers tonight,” I said.
“We need the physical document in the billing office, Clara,” he said. “A digital signature will not suffice for this type of institutional waiver.”
“I will bring it to you tomorrow morning,” I said.
George looked at his computer monitor, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“The board is very strict about the Friday deadline,” he said. “We have seventy-two graduates in your class, and the final list goes to the printer on Monday.”
“He will sign it,” I said.
“For your sake, I hope so,” George said. “We would hate to see four years of clinical rotations held up over a single signature.”
I picked up the paperwork, folding the blue pages neatly into my leather satchel.
The library door clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing in the empty corridor as I walked back toward the wards.
At six that evening, the smell of roasted garlic and rosemary filled my parents’ kitchen.
