I couldn’t help it.
During one of those visits, when I was twenty-four, I met someone who changed my life.
I was sitting on the exam table in the ophthalmology practice downtown, the one I’d been going to since I was twelve. My old doctor, Dr. Feinman, had retired that spring. The receptionist said a new surgeon would be seeing me.
The door opened. Footsteps. Quick, then slower, like he’d stopped for a second just inside the door.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Dr. Pruitt. Nigel. I just joined the practice.”
His voice hit me like a faint echo from very far away.
I couldn’t place it. It was like hearing the first few notes of a song you used to know.
“Do we know each other?” I asked. I tilted my head toward him, trying to place that tone.
It was warm but careful. Like someone stepping around broken glass.
