Linda stayed behind for a moment, standing three feet in front of my wheelchair.

I lifted my right hand off the black plastic armrest, waiting for her to reach out.

I needed the simple pressure of her fingers against my skin to prove I still existed to her.

Linda looked at my raised hand and then down at the patterned carpet.

She smoothed the front of her expensive winter coat with slow, careful strokes.

“Be a good girl for the doctors, sweetie,” Linda said.