“I’ll send someone in to schedule the test,” the specialist says to me. “Wait here a moment.” I nod and watch her leave. As the door clicks shut, a sinking, sick, hollow gap grows and groans in my chest. I shrink against the uncomfortable chair, stare at my hands or count the number of tiles on the floor. I don’t look at the posters of disease on the walls. I already read them earlier. It never gets better, this moment after the door shuts and there is only you and the white white room. It never changes. The me who...