Gemotions

The waiting room's floral wallpaper seemed to throb, a dizzying pattern that threatened to suck Amelia into its pastel vortex. She’d been waiting for an hour, already late to pick up her son, and now this. A brisk, efficient nurse, barely making eye contact, had just informed her that the lab results they'd given her were, well, not hers. A mix-up. Amelia clenched her jaw.

"So," she said, her voice tight, "what exactly *are* my results?" She tapped her foot, a staccato beat against the linoleum floor. The nurse stammered something about a call-back. Amelia wanted to scream.

Her stomach felt like it was full of rocks. She pictured her son, a whirlwind of energy, probably tearing apart the after-school program. This entire situation was a supreme inconvenience.