“Just a minute,” Yaya said.

She rarely had a convenient cycle. Never did it strike while she was in the shower or already seated on the toilet. It always hit when she was walking to the bus stop, or manning the register at Jumpies, or right after sex, as if there was a button up there marked Push here for eggs, crimson-side up. As a bonus to poor timing, her period always struck with fun quirks. Acne rashes, fatigue, skull-splitting migraines.

By contrast, surprise teeth didn’t seem so bad.

She wasn’t misinterpreting the shapes, either. They were small, capped by corner lumps, like molars, and were that not proof enough, the baby tooth lingered in the toilet bowl below. Small and large teeth alike somehow hadn’t torn the vaginal wall, that she could tell. Her only pains right now were the cramps that stabbed her abdomen.

It could mean worse though. Her condition. Thirty-one years old, these things happened, and best have it checked before work today. She wiped her hands, dug her smartphone from her purse, its transparent shell case patterned by wires and circuits like a ‘90s toy, and called her Sibs station.

“Yolanda Betancourt,” she said when prompted.

“Yolanda Betancourt,” an automated yet feminine voice echoed. “Your next mandatory acute zygote manifestation syndrome appointment is scheduled for Monday, November 12th, at 11:15 in the morning at the East Newark Medical Station in Newark, New Jersey. Thank you for calling. AlphaBeta Pharmaceutical, making your world a better place!”

Yaya hit zero—no operator answered. She asked to speak with a human, but ABP seemed fresh out. Every visit to an AlphaBeta Pharmaceutical Sibs station had been on their time, but they couldn’t make an exception when she had chompers growing between her legs.

She gave up on the phone, unwrapped a pad, and stuck it into her underwear. It would only last so long on its own, but the tampon wasn’t fitting and she couldn’t exactly call the Tooth Fairy to swap the teeth for their worth in

dimes. Maybe she worked for ABP. Yaya tossed the tampon in the garbage and blustered out of the bathroom.

The bedroom opened to one side, the living room and kitchen to the other, furniture neatly spaced, the photo frames even and uncluttered, the apartment tidy. Everything the opposite of Yaya’s cramped, messy studio.

What-Was-Her-Name sat up on her queen size bed. She couldn’t have been a few years older than Yaya, but her short hair was stark white, tussled in bedhead style. She probably bleached it. Her stern yet sleepy smile crossed her pale face.

Drums beat between Yaya’s legs. She scarcely remembered going home with the stranger, but her body sure did. Or maybe this was an odd cramp. Or more teeth.

What-Was-Her-Name stretched limber arms and yawned. “You’re going?”

“Jumpies called,” Yaya said, scurrying to the foot of the bed—leggings, bra

—and then toward the living room’s white sofa—tank top, scarf. Her buttoned top lay draped over the dark wood bookshelf. “Surprise early shift.”