Taylor

Kennedy’s nurse greets us in the hallway, then signals a nearby doctor to join us. They escort us to a private waiting room. As the lights flick on, I see four chairs along the wall, a side table with a lamp, a TV mounted on a far wall, and pamphlets scattered on a coffee-table. I’m wheeled near a chair; they prompt Jackson to sit next to me. The latching of the door sends an ominous chill through my body.

“I am Dr. Peterson,” she greets, shaking my hand with no ...