Kyle Ryan’s office was ultramodern and part of a quadruplex. Ross and I walked into the building’s atrium filled with plants and fountains spewing water that emitted splashes meant to calm patients and their family members. If they were anything like me, they were anything but relaxed. The reception areas of the individual offices were visible through walls of glass. Automatic doors slid open upon sensing an approaching visitor. Standing in the center of the atrium, I could see that each office looked the same. A curved receptionist’s desk cut from wood and marble in front of peach-painted walls and under low recessed lighting, a waiting area of modern office chairs, a flat-screened television for entertainment, a door leading to where tests were taken and truths were told. Whether or not one wanted to hear them. Ross and I stepped through the sliding doors at one that Tuesday afternoon.
