A name is called and the Latina girl got up and walked down the hallway, following one of the clinic workers. My palms were clammy and I could feel a few beads of perspiration on my upper lip. They should've called my name much earlier maybe it's a sign. I want to pace up and down the hall, but it's not allowed. The walls and doors aren't very thick, and they don't want patients overhearing conversations between other clients and their counselors. So I'm forced to sit in this ever-shrinking room, tapping my feet and wringing my hands.
I reread the scattered handouts on genital warts, syphilis and chlamydia for the umpteenth time, not really paying attention anymore. My "name" is finally called and I jump up to meet the woman with the manila folder. She's the one who interviewed me two weeks ago. She has a kind, soft face and small glasses. She appears friendly, but not overly. I guess she's in her mid-twenties in many ways she's a mirror of myself.