The room grew dim as the afternoon sun faded behind the pine trees outside the window. Dr. Conner came in at six o’clock, carrying her wire-rimmed glasses in her left hand. She looked exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes deeper than they had been during her morning rounds.
“Let’s check those reflexes again, Nora,” she said in her slow, professional tone.
She tapped my knees with her small rubber hammer and watched the slight movement of my legs. “You’re showing good progress. We might be able to talk about discharge by the end of the week.”
“Dr. Conner,” I said, holding up the photocopy of the medical proxy. “I found this in my white folder. Can you tell me who put it there?”
Dr. Conner took the paper from me, putting on her glasses to read the fine print. She frowned, her fingers tracing the notary’s seal. “This is a standard appointment of a surrogate. It was processed by our intake department when you were admitted after the crash.”
“Who brought it to the intake department?” I asked.
