A mother kneads lotion into her hands as she sits.
The daughter sits, stands, sits.
She whispers to her mother, “Shkdshkdiditdshdkkshdk”.
Her whispers rub the raw nerves of the waiting room.
She stands, sits, stands.
Mother squeezes more lotion into her hands.
Sits, stands, sits.
The door opens:
“Martha Chung, Martha Chung”.
The daughter stumbles briefly as she lungs out of the chair.
She doesn’t look back.
A man turns the page of last year’s Time Magazine.
A woman leans against her husband, smiles, and lets out a sigh of relief.