Barely pausing, he jerks the glass door open and darts inside, the door almost smacking against the outside wall. From behind her computer screen, a receptionist’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Conference Room Two—I’m Mark Hayek from the Parkinson’s Institute,” he says before she can open her mouth. The receptionist pats her chest and takes a quick breath. Mark blinks at her, chagrined. He hadn’t meant to startle anyone. She points across the room. “Go through that door into the hall. It’s the last room on your right. Don’t worry”—she shakes her head—“the fun and games haven’t started yet.” “Thanks,” he says, going toward the door. But now it’s Mark’s turn to be rattled. Fun and games—he doesn’t like the way those words sound. Surely this blasted meeting hasn’t been scheduled during the same time slot as something else. He groans inwardly and takes long, loping strides down the empty hall.
