Sylvia stood frozen in row three, her mouth pressed into a thin line as her eyes darted between the two of us.

“You’re letting your anxiety destroy four years of hard work at that company,” Sylvia said, adjusting her heavy handbag strap again.

“That’s enough,” I said, stepping between Sylvia and Ethan as she tried to grab his arm a second time.

I pointed to the far row of empty chairs near the front entrance, five yards from the registration counter.

“You can sit down quietly over there or leave the premises right now,” I said, keeping my words tight and measured.

“This is a pediatric triage waiting room, not your living room, and I won’t let you make a scene in front of hospital staff.”