Appointment

Kara shifted in her seat, the plastic chair giving a small squeak as she crossed one prosthetic leg over the other. The waiting room was warm, filled with the soft hum of an air purifier and the faint scent of disinfectant, just strong enough to suggest “doctor’s office,” but not strong enough to be unpleasant. She scrolled idly through her phone, pretending to be absorbed in a string of notifications while her mind wandered everywhere but the screen.

Her prosthetic feet tapped lightly against the tile floor with each subtle movement. She could feel the familiar, gentle pressure at the tops of her sockets, one of those sensations she’d learned to read the way others might read the weight of their shoes or the tightness of a strap. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just a subtle reminder of her legs.

They were her everyday legs, matte black carbon fiber with smooth lines, practical and steady. She’d polished them that morning out of habit, the way some people ironed shirts or brushed their hair. A small ritual before stepping into the day.

Across from her, a little girl was coloring in a waiting room booklet. Every so often, the child would glance up, not with fear or confusion, but with the kind of curiosity children haven’t learned to hide yet. Kara offered her a small smile, and the girl’s face lit up before she bent back over her coloring as if she’d been granted secret permission.

Kara exhaled and checked the time again. The appointment wasn’t anything alarming, just a follow up, a routine maintenance check for her prosthetics and a once over of her residual limbs. Still, waiting rooms always made her antsy. Too much time to think, too much time to drift backward into places she didn’t need to revisit.

She switched apps, scrolling through photos instead. There were snapshots from her last hiking trip, her and two friends grinning by a trail sign, her artificial feet planted firmly in the dirt like they belonged there. They did belong there. And the next trip was already planned for spring.

“Ms. Richards?” a nurse called, leaning halfway into the room.

Kara locked her phone, slid it into her purse, and stood. The soft click of her prosthetic ankles engaging echoed quietly as she took her first step.

“Right here,” she said with an easy smile.

As she followed the nurse down the hallway, the rhythmic tap of her feet against the floor felt steady, confident, each step a quiet reminder of where she’d been, and how far she’d come.