The room was silent except for the rapid clicking of her keys. I touched the empty silver chain around my neck, the bare metal cold against my skin.
Linda stopped typing. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the monitor, her hand moving the mouse in small, frantic circles.
“That is strange,” Linda said, her voice dropping. “The database is not letting me open the laboratory summary sheet.”
“Is there a system error?” I asked.
“No,” Linda said, her fingers tap-tapping on the desk. “The file has an administrative lock on it. Only the director can authorize the release.”
“Can you ask him?” I said.
The click of the receptionist’s keyboard as she locks the screen.
Mrs. Gable, my new landlord, carried the heavy cardboard box up the narrow stairs from the bakery at nine o’clock. The smell of yeast and warm flour always rose through the floorboards by eight, but today it was accompanied by the heavy thud of her orthopedic shoes against the pine steps.
She dropped the box onto my small kitchen table, sending a puff of grey dust over my teacup.
“This came to the bakery side by mistake,” Mrs. Gable said, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. “The postman is still getting used to you living up here instead of the big house on the hill.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” I said, reaching for the packing tape.
“It looks like some of your forwarded mail from the clinic,” she said, lingering by the door with her broom. “I recognize the blue envelopes.”
I pulled the packing tape off the top of the box and reached inside.
“They sent a batch of old billing records,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
“Well, let me know if you need anything else,” she said, her eyes resting briefly on my empty silver chain before she closed the door behind her.
I sat down and sorted through the stack until I found the blue slip from my last fertility cycle.
