The kitchen was clean, dishes drying in the rack, the mystery of a missing blue tumbler yet to be solved. My new batch of special blend of instant coffee & cocoa was mixed and in its jar with its spoon, ready for a couple more months of morning wake-ups. I'd sat down with a new-to-me Hillerman book, reading, while Steve took an afternoon nap. The phone rang.
I noted the 218 area code, so allegedly northern Minnesota. I have family there so I recognize it, but it's none of them or their names would have popped up. I also get a lot of calls from some group claiming they're raising funds for policemen. Research says they pay themselves a huge majority of what they collect. So I'm wary.
"Hello?"
"Is this Heeether?"
I could have said no right then with such a bad pronunciation of my name. Instead...
"What do you want?"
"Hello, Heeether, this is ______ with (medical sounding name). I'm calling to tell you you have been approved by Medicare to have your genetic testing..."
Click.
Did I mention my parents both lived quite long lives, that Mom wasn't at all shy about sharing medical information, and I know pretty much what kind of messes I inherited?
The book is a really good one.
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