“I’m sorry, Marsha,” the doctor said as he sat back in his chair, behind his massive, expensive-looking desk. “There may be nothing I can do.”
“But… You’ve GOT to do something! I’m dying here!” Marsha gripped the arms of her own seat and lifted herself off it a few inches in agitation.
“Well let me see.” The doctor sat up, stared down his nose through his bifocals and flipped through a folder that lay on his desk. “There is something. But it’s going to take some money.”
“I’ll do anything! I’ll even go down to the bank for you myself!”
“Fine,” said the doctor. “Get me three cases of your Girl Guide cookies. I’ll give you a cheque.” He closed the folder. “Damned mothers and their little girls,” he muttered under his breath.