The doctor rings right on time, and they say pleasant hellos. “They have you workin’ on a weekend, eh?” Gemma says.

“Yes.” The doctor chuckles. “Saturday clinic. Five-day workweek’s not what it used to be, that’s for sure. I guess that’s just our times now.”

Gemma thinks about the A/C guy still in the apartment. Everything here used to shut down on Friday at six. Even on top of the old Sunday laws. (Though she guesses life is still like that in, you know, Winkler.) Gemma has a memory of her dad speeding to the IGA to make it before closing on a winter night.

Gemma bears no grudge against her father. He’d done what he needed to do in his life. And in that way, he’d given Gemma a gift, for Gemma has taken her cue from him and done the same.

“I see you want to discuss your blood work?” says the doctor. “Let’s take a look here.”

Centuries pass as the doctor’s keyboard clacks.

“Your vitamin B₁₂’s a little low. You might want to take a supplement. Your estrogen levels look good. You had questions?”

Gemma shuts her eyes. Just say it. “My ferritin looked pretty high?” she says rapidly. “Should I be concerned about that?”

“Hmm.”

She stares east down the highway. Across the road, a car door slams and shoes crunch on gravel.

“No, no, I don’t think so.” The doctor suddenly sounds irritable. “Ferritin can bump for a number of reasons. You’re at three hundred and twenty micrograms per millilitre; I wouldn’t be concerned about any level lower than four hundred.”

Oh, thank God. “Is that so?”

“Yes. As far as I can see, you’re healthy! Young and healthy and living your truth.” (The doctor no longer sounds irritable.) “Anything else you’d like to talk about today? It doesn’t have to be related to your blood work.”

Got away with it again. Gemma grins to herself. Another pass.

Then: One day, those passes will run out.

She stands up in the wind. The breeze has picked up. She can feel the glint of rain in it. She should have brought her coat. “No. Thank you, doctor. Have a nice weekend. I hope it’s sunny where you are.”

She texts Ava and Olive, asks them if they need anything from the store. She wonders what they’ll do for dinner—there are still plenty of leftovers, and she hopes that will be okay. Sometime in the next week, though, she’ll suggest to Ava they get Marathon Pizza. Maybe invite Holly? Marathon’s still around, bless them. Is Trav’s open this early? It must be. She feels like sitting in Trav’s for a minute. Ava texts back: Can you get seltzer? I like raspberry. Olive texts, too: We’re out of soap. Gemma will swing by Giant Tiger. Cats. Gemma does wish they could get a cat, but hey—if Olive won’t hear of it, then Olive won’t hear of it.

Walking down Seventh Street, she sees a man in a tan jacket enter the old movie theatre. Looks like they use it for dance lessons now. Funny. Guess if you want to see a movie these days, you have to go to Winkler. It all jogs her memory of a boy from her past, a boy who’d played video games with her in middle school, a boy who tolerated her presence and in whom Gemma’d taken comfort. Few years before that, he and some other boys had said they’d show her something funny behind the school, and then suddenly she was on the ground with a shoe on her forehead. Grade four or something. Whatever. That was all such a long time ago. Who knows where that boy is now? The door to the theatre swings back and forth. Gemma walks on and hits Stephen Street with a laugh. Who’s going to complain? Not Gemma. Gemma doesn’t complain.