I glance at the clock. Only a minute has passed. I start squirming in my seat and run my fingers in the crook of my arm that's where my life came to a fork in the road, where the needle mark from two weeks ago is.
The receptionist calls, "Taylor," and for a moment I forgot that's my pseudonym for the afternoon. Every clinic has a different system for naming their clients in order to protect their anonymity. On the third call I remember and go up to the desk, just to sign in. She leaves to tell the counselor that I'm here. I sit down again and keep waiting.