here is the blank story that i don’t want to write
After a brief stop by the bathroom, Rachel shambled her way into the kitchen like the zombie she sometimes suspected herself to be. Undead or not, she still had bills to pay, meaning she needed to be alert enough to do her job. A strong, hot cup of coffee was in order. She made her way to the coffee machine and fell into familiar routine, seeking her prize almost on muscle memory.
She got a mug from the cabinet. She set it beneath the machine’s dispenser. She opened the machine’s lid. Something began to buzz. She reached into the cabinet again. She retrieved an off-brand K-cup. The buzzing grew louder. She put the cup in the coffee maker. She closed the lid. The crunch felt violent. She selected ‘8oz’ on the little touch screen. The buzzing became a drone. She pressed the button beneath the touch screen. The machine began to whir. She could barely hear it over the droning. The floor creaked behind her. Something was watching her. Something was watching her—
The world snapped back into uncomfortable clarity as she whirled around, nearly knocking a jar of sugar to the floor in the process. There was nothing behind her, of course. She was alone in her apartment. Mark had left for work before she’d woken up, and a quick glance to the right confirmed the door had been locked behind him. He even remembered to lock the deadbolt that morning. No one was there, the only sounds to be heard being the coffee maker steaming and the pounding of Rachel’s heartbeat. No buzz, no drone.
Rachel took a deep breath, then leaned back against the counter with a groan. Shaking off the adrenaline, she opened the fridge to grab some creamer and poured a generous amount into her cup. As she stirred her coffee, she reached for the pill container next to the kitchen sink. What better way to christen a fresh cup of coffee than by using it to wash down an unassuming little capsule? Not that she needed the coffee anymore. After whatever the hell that was, she was plenty awake.
Coffee in hand regardless, she crossed the apartment to settle into her office and get to work. Over six months in, and her job still felt too good to be true. She’d managed to land a remote biller position for a telehealth practice. Medical billing was a notorious nightmare of paperwork, but that made it perfect for Rachel. Translating rejection errors, filling in boxes, deciphering ERAs? That scratched a mental itch she hadn’t realized she had. And the best part? Through the whole process, she hardly had to speak to a single soul. She could put on some music, bury her head in paperwork, and not worry about the world beyond her office for hours.
Speaking of paperwork, signing into the practice’s EHR revealed several bright red claim rejections waiting to be reviewed. They were all from the same insurance company, and all related to the same clinician, so Rachel’s first guess was an NPI-related issue…
That puzzle led her to another, and soon enough, she found herself easing into the natural flow of work.
She deciphered the error message. She emailed the clinician. She opened the next batch of rejections. She ignored the drone. She turned up her music. She pulled up a patient profile. She selected the billable dates of service. The droning overpowered her music. She double-checked the payer address. She finished the intimidating red form. Her jaw still ached. She submitted the claim. It was so loud. She opened another ERA. The drone was right behind her. It was in her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.
Her monitor suddenly shut off. She stared into her reflection. Something else stared back.
Rachel pushed herself away from the desk with a gasp, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. She shivered and blinked at her computer screen, still on, lit with the awkward tables and blocks of text of insurance paperwork. She turned her head to look to the left of the screen, at her office window. The glare from the still-rising sun provided her a decent view of her reflection, normal and familiar.
It hadn’t been real. Rachel was safe, alone. Still, she turned around and double-checked that her office door was closed before she slid her chair back into place, just to be safe. Just for her own foolish reassurance.
