The same one, I swear, who was asking me the same damn questions in the same flat, emotionless voice. She’d probably taken a course—Pacification 101: Dealing with the Distraught Customer. My fingernails dug into my palms as I fought the urge to scream. I wanted to scream until I ran out of breath, until I fell, blue-faced and exhausted, to the cold, hard floor.“I don’t know his Social Security number.”The receptionist, Miss Prozac of 1999, managed a cool, dispassionate smile, but her fingers hadn’t budged from the keyboard.“I don’t have a clue about his health insurance! Look in your computer! Look up my mother. My poor, dead mother.” I slapped the counter with the flat of my hand. “Look up Lois Alexander. The information’s the same.”In mid-rant, I felt a hand on my back and turned to see Paul, his face a misery of concern. “Sit down, Hannah. I’ll take care of this.”Miss Prozac beamed at Paul, as if he’d just thrown her a life preserver. “Yes, please sit down, Mrs.
