The neurology department sent you a form letter asking you to be a resident’s final exam in diagnostic assessment. You wait in the exam room in the tank top and leggings you wore under your jeans.
There is a perfunctory knock at the door announcing the team. They take their places, an older man, a younger man and a woman somewhere between them in age. The candidate, the woman, stands next to the exam table where you are sitting.
“Please begin,” nods the older man to the woman.
This woman has fifteen minutes to figure you out. Even though she is probably only ten years older than you, she reminds you of Eleanor Roosevelt or the prow of a ship cutting through the churning waters. You are instantly on her side.