It was dangerously cold outside.
The wind whipping hard enough to break skin, its icy chill tearing through layers; no matter how many you have on. Jackson, for example, had on a long sleeve shirt, two coats, mittens, a hat, a scarf, three pairs of socks, long johns under his pants, and snow boots. Yet his teeth still clatter and hands lay numb in his pockets, aimlessly crumbling up empty coughdrop wrappers. That didn't stop him, it never did.
He entered the building of destination, kicking his boots against the dark, dirt caked rug at the doorway, watching as the fresh snow mix with the sludge from past feet. He then carefully stepped inside onto the linoleum, feeling like a clumsy figure skater without skates. There were puddles here and there trying to be mopped up by a janitor who glared at Jackson for tracking in more water. He ignored the stare from behind his scarf covered face, and made his way to the front desk.
His thickly mittened hands found traction on the edge of the desk as he gripped it, steadying before he pulled his scarf down. Chapped lips, nearly blue in color, parted, "I'm here to check myself in."
The woman behind the counter raised her gaze upward behind the thick rim of her glasses, questioning, "what seems to be the problem?"
She knew Jackson. He knew she did with the way her eyes didn't seem to be curious, and he knew her. Her name was Sunmi, she had long black hair that shone under the iridescent lights at the front desk, paperwork always scattered before her. She had checked him in before, this wasn't new. This was routine.
"I'm sick."
She set her pen down, lifting her chin to match her stare, hands folded beneath her chin. She wasn't going to check him in, at least, not without a fight. He looked at the calendar on the wall behind her head-- December 19th. He had already been there five times this month.
"Do you want some hot cocoa? Tea? We have green or honey flavor." She asked instead, placing her hands down onto the smooth desk. Jackson looked at her again, slightly tilting his head before shaking it-- honey made him sick. "No, no, I'm sick. I would like to be checked in, to see a doctor."
There was a long pause before he added, "please."
She gave him a long, sorry stare that nearly lasted a whole turn of the clock, pursing her lips before picking up her blue pen. She wrote in silence before clicking the end of the pen and standing, sliding Jackson a nametag and a marker. Before he could take it, she took off the cap and neatly wrote 'Jackson' across the white paper, peeling it off and handing it to him on the end of her finger. He took it without word, placing it over the outer layer of his coat.
"I'll go get a doctor to see you, wait here or have a seat." She almost added 'you already know what to do', but left it to hang in the air. Jackson did already know. He sat himself down in the waiting room in the usual spot-- in the corner by the soft blue glow of the fishtank, and unwrapped the last coughdrop in his pocket.
Down the hall he heard her speak, "he's been here five times this month, he needs someone to speak with him."
...
The room he was placed in looked familiar, like a small doctors office he went to as a child. It looked familiar in that sense, with its light blue wallpaper and its small quarters, small enough to fit the doctor, the patient on the table, and one other person if they cram into the corner. But as for looking familiar in this sense, Jackson had never been brought to a room like this here. He was always taken to a bigger room, one that looked more, I don't know, hospital-like?
He sat anyways, because at least he was going to see a doctor. He sat himself up on the exam table, layers still wraped around his body, minus the scarf, hat, and gloves. He couldn't bring himself to shed his coat when his body still ran cold with tremors. His feet swayed beneath him, lightly kicking the metal beneath him and hearing it chime. He sat for awhile.
