My feet feel heavy as I follow Amy into the clinic. I’ve been here before but, under these circumstances, the place feels completely foreign. Amy checks in at the counter, signing in on a chart, and finds a seat near the door. Is she gonna bolt? I sit next to her, feeling the subtle buzz of my chair as her body shakes with nerves. I reach out and hold her hand. She looks at me, the sides of her mouth curving down into a deep frown. She shifts in her seat and rests her head on my shoulder.And we wait. Soft whimpers can be heard every few minutes. She doesn’t make a move, her hand still in mine, squeezing tightly, and her head like a ton of bricks weighing on my shoulder.Until her name is called.“Amy, we’re ready for you,” a woman, in pastel pink scrubs holding a clipboard, says softly. We both stand. “I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t come back with her,” she tells me. “We can come and get you when she goes to recovery if it’s okay with her.”Amy nods to the nurse and turns to me.
