The assistant at the practical desk had put my selection sheet beneath a different form. I recognized the clinic stamp before he turned it toward me.
"They've answered the scope request."
I set my satchel on the floor. There was nowhere else to put it; the other half of the desk held a dismantled scale and a notice asking people not to touch it.
The upper sheet gave me an appointment for the morning after tomorrow. Core fitness examination. Oren Pell.
There was a place for my signature near the bottom. The assistant had put the pen beside it, with the nib turned toward him, as though he expected to take it back almost at once.
"Is that the person who runs the practical?"
"The examiner."
"I haven't met him."
The assistant glanced at the name. "The appointment gives his office."
