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.
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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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