The daughter came back to the window.
“She also wants to ask about a referral,” she said. “For her shoulder.”
She paused. “She didn’t want to bother you with two things.”
The receptionist looked past her to the woman in the plastic chair. Third visit this month. Each time, one thing. The blood work, then the prescription, now the shoulder. Three mornings. Three bus rides. Three times in the plastic chair until her number was called.
The daughter stood at the window the way people stand at windows — close enough to be heard, far enough to leave.
“She can bring everything at once,” the receptionist said. “That’s what the appointment is for.”
The daughter went back. They talked quietly. The mother shook her head.
The daughter returned.
“Just the shoulder for today,” she said.