I pass by the Main OR waiting room. The girl is a bit over 15. Papers are all signed. She sits there in the waiting room, alone, wearing a hospital gown, drawing circles with her feet absentmindedly. Where are her parents, I wonder?
A few hours later, [Mickey] tells me about how she got the jar, with a label marked 6909, and she felt nautious.
“What’s a 6909?” I ask.
One of the RTs cuts in, “We’re not allowed to say the a-word here, sir.”