“We don’t have anyone here by that name . . .” “Give my boyfriend the shotttttttttt!” I interrupted, pounding my fist on the desk. OK, that’s almost what happened. In reality, I placed a muzzle on my inner MacLaine and looked at the receptionist all puzzled and confused-like. No one here by that name? Had Kit, in his presurgical haze, sent me to the wrong hospital? “Are you sure?” I asked. “Are you spelling Kit K-I-T?” “We have a Christopher Cowan,” she said. “Yes, Christopher,” I replied with enormous relief. “Kit is his nickname. I’m sorry. It’s Christopher Cowan.” It was the first time I
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