I smile. I like my doctor. I started working with her in graduate school when the weight loss started destroying my body. It’s so weird. Everyone praised me for getting thin, but it was killing me. My hair was falling out, my periods stopped, and I could see my ribs when I stood naked in front of the mirror. Funny that vanity was the thing that made me finally accept that I had an eating disorder and needed help to overcome it. “I’m . . . tired.” I laugh, since that’s why I’m here. “But I guess you already know that.”

I expect her to stand behind the room’s laptop and start noting my symptoms, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes the seat next to the table, sitting sideways so she’s facing me.

“I know it’s ridiculous to come in for being tired, but I lost my dad to cancer, and my mom’s primary symptom before her diagnosis was fatigue, and—”

“Shay, it’s understandable.”

My cheeks heat. “I feel like a hypochondriac.”

“When was your last period?”

“A few weeks ago?”

“And was it a full period or just a little bleeding?”

I shrug. I’ve been heavy, and I’ve been anorexic. My period was never regular until I got a handle on both and went on the pill. “It was light, I guess. That’s not uncommon for me.” Shit. My eyes instantly fill with unexpected tears. Am I going to have to get a hysterectomy before I’ve even had a chance to start a family? I wipe at my cheeks. “If it’s uterine cancer, do you think . . . will I still be able to have children?”

Dr. Hassell grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and hands it to me. “Shayleigh, I don’t believe your symptoms are from cancer—uterine or otherwise.”

I dab my cheeks gently then blow my nose with the grace of a trumpeting elephant. “Sorry. I’m just under a lot of stress right now, and it’s making me emotional.” I force a laugh. “And making me jump to conclusions, apparently. It’s just stress, right? All this . . .?” I wave a hand in front of my face to indicate the hot mess express that I’ve become.

“Stress could be a contributing factor to your symptoms, but according to the urine sample you gave my nurse, you’re pregnant.”

I blink at her. “I’m . . . Excuse me? What?”

Her smile is gentle. “Pregnant.”

My brain takes so long to make sense of the word that it might as well be from a foreign language. “How could I be . . . I’m not even . . . I’m on the pill. I haven’t missed a period.”