“Good afternoon,” he says, nodding towards me without a smile. “You’re looking well.”
“You’re the doctor who performed my C-section?”
“Your emergency C section,” he clarifies. “You were unconscious when you arrived. You were brought in by an older African American man.”
“We asked him a few questions when we needed some of your personal information,” the doctor continues. “But he couldn’t give us any. He claimed that you two were not related.”
“That’s true,” I reply. “We’re not related. I met him a half hour before my water broke.”
“I see,” the doctor tuts. “Well, I’m going to need you to fill out some forms for us.”
“Forms?” I ask, panic rising inside me like bile.
“Yes, we need your name, age, nation ID number. Things of that nature,” he says. “We need to know who to contact.”
I c
