What do you mean, the office is closed? Not the sort of question she tends to look forward to. And probably not one she should answer, either. It seems rhetorical. But considering the way the woman is looking at her, maybe not. “U-Um, the office is... is closed for the afternoon, the doctors are at a conference for the rest of the day. I-I sent out an email, I definitely think you were on it, Miss... um. Miss...” No, no. She knows this name, she knows this woman. Fiona prides herself on this sort of thing, the familiarity with patients, the rapport they build. This couldn’t be going worse. Miss... something with a ‘P,’ isn’t it? But it doesn’t matter because she’s practically blue in the face, rattling on something about incompetencies and inconveniences and no she cannot come for a late night appointment instead, she has a child -- Fiona is practically scarlet by the time someone else wanders in the door. Either her saving grace or another person she’s sorely disappointed... oh. Or a package. Fiona dares to look away from her furious patient for only a moment, giving what should be a smile but emerges as more of a panicked grimace in the direction of the new delivery woman. “So sorry, um, just a second--”