The Dean stepped into the consultation room, followed closely by Davis and Jessica.
Her fist was clenched tight, the other clammy in Davis' steady hand, yet her face gave nothing away. It remained blank and unreadable.
She exhaled slowly, her gaze sweeping the room.
White blank walls, a ceiling fan circulating the air in gentle circles, a few chairs, a table at the far end corner, several files lay neatly stacked on the table, a shelf housing several files and documents.
But the centerpiece was a large blank LCD monitor hanging on the wall.
A faint smell of antiseptic filled the room; rather than calming her vein, it quickened her pulse, a consistent reminder of why she came.
A team of specialists waited: a neurologist, a psychologist, and a PTSD therapist. Some were familiar colleagues, and a few others unfamiliar.
Seeing them come in, the specialists rose welcoming them warmly in greeting, polite and formal, before motioning for them to sit.
