Gemotions

Sarah slammed the file cabinet shut, the metal door echoing in the sterile hallway. Her fists clenched. It wasn't just the wrong blood type; it was the entire medical history. This other woman, “Patricia Miller,” had a laundry list of issues: chronic back pain, a history of smoking, the works. *She* was healthy. Always had been. Now, her life was a potential timebomb, all because someone couldn’t keep track of a few pieces of paper. Her hands trembled as she pulled out the correct file again, the familiar, comforting weight of her own records a stark contrast to the misfiled ones.

The receptionist chirped a greeting. "Everything alright, Ms. Peterson?"

Sarah forced a smile. "Peachy." She practically spat the word. The smile vanished the moment she was out the door. The image of the doctor's casual shrug, his assurance that it was a ‘simple clerical error,’ burned in her mind. Simple for *him*, perhaps. For her, it was a constant, gnawing unease.