Wednesday was the day of his report; he's glad to have that part over with. The rest of the business trip has been -- not dull, exactly, but uneventful
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It's not a big place -- five exam rooms, ten beds for the increasingly rare times that a patient stays overnight. Signs in four languages give instructions; pamphlets in six languages give advice. There's a meeting room, with a discreet door off to the side that reads SOCIAL WORKER on the nameplate. Jordie explains in a low voice that three of them share that office.
He himself shares a desk in the very back corner, within a strangely-shaped alcove: the majority of the clinic itself is underground, the basement of a nondescript building deep in the Fremont district, and while it's clear they've tried to make it as welcoming as possible, it's still a windowless place where miserable people come to see if there's anything that can be done for their myriad physical ills.
"Standard consent rules apply," he says over his shoulder, tiredly, pulling on his coat and clipping on his badge, "but assuming they're all okay with it -- you want to do the ridealong for the actual examinations? I cleared it with administration."
Five patients in the morning; four in the afternoon. The first three are children under the supervision of social services, all siblings, all there together. Jordie busies two at a time by letting them play with his stethoscope while he checks the range of motion on the others, showing them cloudy scans of their bones. He stays good to his word, too: all three of them stay quiet, and he teaches them bad names to call people in Spanish, with a stern warning not to actually use them
( ... )
If Simon sounds a little subdued, he's not really aware of it.
After Jordie sees the last patient, Simon wanders around the waiting room, leafing through pamphlets without really seeing them.
It's a lot like the mobile clinic, except ... he can't even really articulate the difference, but it's there. Urban and rural, Core and Rim; there's more to it than that, though.
They wind up back at Costello's, and a word to the man behind the counter gets them a booth in the back corner, far away from everyone else.
Jordie hangs his jacket up on the hook embedded in the side of the seat, slips in, fishes the pack of cigarettes out of the inner pocket, and tosses them on the table, where he glares at them.
"I'm not going to do it," he announces. "I'm just going to look at them."
Simon looks at the tabletop, frowning slightly. "Well -- they're off the grid. Blank areas in the general public surveillance. It's, ah ... seeking them out is considered automatically suspect by law enforcement, for that reason."
A beat. He's not sure what in particular Jordie's looking for.
He himself shares a desk in the very back corner, within a strangely-shaped alcove: the majority of the clinic itself is underground, the basement of a nondescript building deep in the Fremont district, and while it's clear they've tried to make it as welcoming as possible, it's still a windowless place where miserable people come to see if there's anything that can be done for their myriad physical ills.
"Standard consent rules apply," he says over his shoulder, tiredly, pulling on his coat and clipping on his badge, "but assuming they're all okay with it -- you want to do the ridealong for the actual examinations? I cleared it with administration."
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Small as the space is, it's considerably bigger than the shuttle he worked out of; why does it feel so much more cramped?
(Maybe he's just gotten spoiled, lately.)
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If Simon sounds a little subdued, he's not really aware of it.
After Jordie sees the last patient, Simon wanders around the waiting room, leafing through pamphlets without really seeing them.
It's a lot like the mobile clinic, except ... he can't even really articulate the difference, but it's there. Urban and rural, Core and Rim; there's more to it than that, though.
He's still puzzling at it when Jordie comes out.
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He reaches for his jacket and his own bag.
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Jordie hangs his jacket up on the hook embedded in the side of the seat, slips in, fishes the pack of cigarettes out of the inner pocket, and tosses them on the table, where he glares at them.
"I'm not going to do it," he announces. "I'm just going to look at them."
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The selector screen in the center of the tabletop is still faintly grainy and jittery, but it works.
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The cigarettes stay where they are. Jordie reaches in his jacket pocket one more time, and pulls out his datapad.
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You'll get the whole story, Jordie told him.
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He's got no idea where Jordie is heading with this.
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(What he doesn't say: Jordie, you're the one who first told me about blackout zones.)
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He looks up, gaze hooded.
" -- refresh my memory. So I know what holes I'll need to fill in."
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Simon looks at the tabletop, frowning slightly. "Well -- they're off the grid. Blank areas in the general public surveillance. It's, ah ... seeking them out is considered automatically suspect by law enforcement, for that reason."
A beat. He's not sure what in particular Jordie's looking for.
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