“We will manage the train,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “We cannot do the private van.”
He looked down at the blue form, then back at Sophie, who was sitting on the examination table trying to balance a wooden tongue depressor on her knee.
“We have to go now, Clara, because by November she will not have the strength for the journey,” he said.
He set the pen down on the counter without signing the bottom of the page.
“Let me review her blood work from this morning before I write my name on this,” he said.
He walked out of the room, leaving the unsigned blue paper on the small desk by the scale.
I picked up the form and folded it into thirds, tucking it into my purse before the nurse could come back in.
The paper felt stiff and dry against my fingers.
“Did the doctor say yes?” Sophie asked from the table.
“He is just checking his notes,” I said, helping her step down onto the stepstool.
We drove out to my father’s farm after we left the clinic, the gravel road kicking up a long plume of gray dust behind us.
