Write four lines of prose about: the clinic.
We took Max to a walk-in clinic in Penticton this morning, just to make sure he doesn't have anything more serious than a cold. The doctor confirmed that he doesn't, and gave us a few tips on how to help him with his sore throat and congestion.
So that's a relief.
Now I go back to waiting for this nonsense to be done with us.
There's a mother with two little girls in line ahead of us, the smaller one held in her arms while coughs wrack her tiny body. The guy slumped on a chair over in the corner looks like he's about ready to die, possibly from the plague. I look at my son, then my wife, then look around the waiting room one more time.
We came here to help him get better, right?