Sam stares at the fish tank at the corner of the waiting room. The perpetual stream of outgoing bubbles, the colorful, mindless fish wafting back and forth. She tries to ignore the growing pressure in her chest. She thinks about their fishy eyes—how creepy they are: glossed-over circles that have nothing behind them. How long has it been? Two minutes? It feels like ten. Maybe seven. She thinks about how it isn’t a big deal; about how there’s a 60% chance that it could be something else, and about how even if that’s only a little more than half, life is random, and so she can’t know which percentile she belongs in anyways until she sees the results, so there’s no point in overthinking. Sam is cool, full of youthful cynicism. Don’t romanticize it, she thinks. Life is transient, and no matter how long it can seem, no matter how many experiences, lessons, memories, and accomplishments you have, it’s honestly all the same in the end. Her own eyes glaze over, and the room seems to be covered in a murky, turquoise sheen.

The door opens, and a mother and son walk through. The woman in the headscarf squeezes the shoulder of her boy with no hair. God, how old is this kid? Eight? Ten, tops? Now that’s just not fair. She thinks about what he has to deal with, about how he might never become a scientist or astronaut or president, and about how fucked up it is that this was happening to a kid who deserves to have as many delusions about the future as the next. She watches him search through a bowl of candy at the front desk. How does he do it?  

The pressure swells in her chest. She thinks about how she’s never been to Europe, never been in love. About how she hasn’t graduated college or seen Casablanca. She thinks about how much she loves the summer and the rain and potato chips. A dull ringing sounds in her ears. Sam looks at her clasped hands. How long have her palms been sweating?

A nurse comes out with a clipboard, “Samantha?”