Today's patients are the usual people. The regulars.

I recognize three of them right away.

There's the old man with the stomach ulcer, grumbling through his newspaper, a checkered hat sitting upon his head.

There's the mother who brings her daughter in for a monthly office visit, sitting with her hands folded patiently in her lap, her daughter silently reading beside her.

There's the middle aged bachelor with his music in his ears and his phone in his hand (he looks like a college student), probably here with more complaints from his bedridden grandmother.

I do my scan of the room as I pass by the window, on my way to my cup of afternoon coffee.

But a single figure stops me.

Dead in my tracks.

A short sleeve shirt hanging off his lean frame.

Slightly big jeans that are baggy around the knees.

An iPad in his lap.

My eyes widen and my mouth drops.

I haven't seen this person since the last years of high school. Since the start of my journey into college. Since forever.

It's him.