A dark blue sign surrounded by trees and small plants announced the hospital. Ann drove the car right into a multistory building just for cars. It was the first time I’d seen a parking garage, and I was stunned by its size.

The hospital was a sprawling building next door to the parking garage, connected by a concrete path. We entered the building and went down a maze of hallways until we reached a clinic. Ann handed a sheet of paper to the receptionist, a woman with a blouse so low-cut I could see the crests of her breasts. She read the paper and spoke to someone on the phone before agreeing to lead me to a room in the back.

“They bring Tilly here?” I asked Ann. “I can see Tilly now?”

Ann looked perplexed, like she didn’t know how to answer my simple question.

“Yes, but no.”

“Why?”

The door opened. A doctor entered, smiling brightly. His white coat was snug on his belly, two of the buttons looking strained. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He wore a name badge too, but his was decorated with a cartoon elephant.

“Ar-y-a-na,” he said, his eyebrows raised as he carefully enunciated the syllables of my name. He looked back at the paper the receptionist had left on the counter. “Welcome, Aryana.”

He shook Ann’s hand and sat on a chair facing me. He squinted as he looked at me, as if he couldn’t decide where to begin.

“Do you know why you are here?” he asked.

I didn’t.

“I want to see how strong and healthy you are. And if there’s something we can do to help you, then that’s what we’ll do.”

This did not sound terrible. Not yet anyway.

The doctor asked me many of the same questions. I told my story again. It was mechanical at this point. I’d found ways to distill it to its most important parts, the ones that drew the long, mournful looks from the Americans. The doctor let out a heavy sigh.

He was kind, his voice soft and feathery. I imagined happy grandchildren at his feet, delighting in his affection. I began to relax. Ann checked her watch. He asked me whether I took any medications or if I’d ever had surgery on any part of my body. He asked if I’d broken any bones or stayed in the hospital for long periods of time, if I’d ever fainted or had nosebleeds or felt my heart racing when I was sitting perfectly still. He asked if I suffered from headaches and wanted a detailed description of my most recent bowel movement. When I did not understand his words, he used his own body to demonstrate. It would have been comical under different circumstances.

“When was your last menstrual cycle?”

I had no idea what he was asking.