Last Chance Saloon

He sits on one of the chairs against the wall, face impassive, as he writes on his pad of paper. I find myself focusing on small irrelevant details: a button that has been sewn back onto his shirt in the wrong colour thread; one eyebrow hair longer than all the others; the gold initials on his pen that glint as it keeps writing, writing, writing.
I wish I could read those words that mean so much to us. Words that could be the difference between life and death.
The clock ticks and outside I can hear the faint sounds of rush hour traffic beginning to build up. People are going about their ordinary little lives, cushioned from the worries that chase me every second of every day. I try not to resent them, but it's hard not to. When a complete stranger spoke to me in the bus queue the other day, complaining about the two minute delay, I wanted to scream at him. I didn't. But I think he saw the daggers in my eyes.
The man has his legs crossed, and the free foot bounces slightly as he writes. He sees me watching and his face quirks into a small, tight smile that never reaches his eyes. I understand. He's not supposed to engage with me; he's just meant to make his observations. He raises his brows in a question and I realise I'm still staring. Flustered, I turn my attention back to Robbie, and the young woman who is trying to get him to brush the doll's hair. Robbie takes the brush from her, hits the doll with it and giggles.
My heart sinks. I'd told them that we wouldn't get much out of him with an afternoon appointment. Not if he hasn't had a nap first. 'There's nothing we can do about it,' the reply had come. 'We can't change the screening protocol'.
She has moved onto some colour matching now. Robbie takes the blue circle and drops it into the yellow tub, peering down as it clatters to the bottom. I snatch it up and snap, 'No, Robbie. Blue! It's blue. You know blue. Put it in the right one!'
He looks up at me in bewilderment, face creasing into a wail.
'Robbie, I'm sorry, love. Mummy's sorry.' I bite my lip, knowing my temper has wasted precious time, and has made it even less likely that he'll perform at his best.
55. That's the score he needs to get in to the trial. I don't know how he's doing, but I don't suppose it's going well. The young woman has a small frown on her face as she looks at the next instruction on her list.
Tears forgotten, Robbie has picked up the brush again and discovers the satisfying sound it makes when banged against a filing cabinet. He growls at me when I try to stop him, but is distracted by the next toy - a little bear that pops up when you press the right button. He can be so curious and ea to make sense of the world around him, and I love watching his round eager face. This new drug could offer so much hope to us. Hope that he could continue to learn and grow. Hope that he can grow up and enjoy a normal life. Hope that we haven't had these last few months.
I watch him, willing him to get it right. A few points on this assessment could make all the difference.
The man closes his folder with a soft thud that makes me jump. The test is finished. He gets up, smoothing his jacket over his hips with one hand. I notice his ring for the first time, a chunky gold signet with those same initials - SZ. From this angle, as I sit on the floor next to my precious son, they look like a 5 and a 2.
I hope that isn't a bad omen.