Booking a consultation

You stand on the sidewalk in front of the pale yellow Victorian, the afternoon light slanting through the maples lining Maple Avenue. Your face is still slightly puffy from crying. The safety plan and Dr. Okafor's information are folded in your crossbody bag. You pull out your phone, unfold the slip of paper, and dial before you can talk yourself out of it.

Three rings. Four.

"Ridgewood Informed Consent Clinic, this is Keiko speaking. How can I help you?"

The voice is bright, efficient, mid-twenties maybe. You can hear keyboard clacking in the background.

"Hi. I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Okafor. For a hormone consultation." Your voice comes out steadier than you expected—your practiced alto, the one that's become less practice and more default over the past week.

"Of course! Let me check our availability." More typing. "We actually have a cancellation for this Thursday at 2:15pm. Otherwise, our next open slot is... October 14th."

Thursday. Two days from now.

"Thursday works," you say immediately. "I'll take it."

"Great. Can I get your name?"

"Riley. Riley Bennett."

"And your pronouns?"

The question catches you off guard. Nobody's asked you that before—not directly, not like it's just part of intake paperwork.

"She. Her."

She. Her. That's you.

"Perfect, Riley. I have you down for Thursday October 3rd at 2:15pm. Dr. Okafor does a comprehensive initial consultation—it usually runs about an hour. You'll need to bring a valid photo ID and your insurance card if you have one. If you don't have insurance, we have a sliding scale. The consultation fee is $75, and that goes toward your first prescription if Dr. Okafor decides HRT is appropriate for you."

$75. You have roughly $4.87 left after paying Vasquez.

"Is there a waitlist for the sliding scale?" you ask.

"Nope—Dr. Okafor sees everyone at the same rate. The sliding scale just adjusts the consultation and follow-up fees based on income. You'd fill out a form when you arrive. Most people qualify."

"Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome! You'll get a confirmation text at this number. See you Thursday!"

The line goes dead. You stand there on the sidewalk, phone pressed against your chest, breathing. Two days. Forty-eight hours until you sit across from someone who can actually put estrogen in your body.

You have no money. You have no way to get to Ridgewood. You don't even know where Ridgewood is exactly.

But you have an appointment.

The autumn air is cool on your still-damp cheeks. You tuck your phone away and start walking toward The Brass Kettle, your block heels clicking on the brick sidewalk. Two blocks. Janelle is two blocks away with her chamomile tea and her copy of Giovanni's Room and her earnest, clumsy attempt to be better.

You round the corner onto Main Street—Millbrook's version, smaller than Larkspur Hollow's—and spot The Brass Kettle through its fogged windows. A cozy independent coffee shop with exposed brick and mismatched furniture. And there, in the window booth, Janelle. She sees you coming. You watch her posture shift—spine straightening, book closing, hands finding the mug.

She doesn't wave. She just waits.