My words tumble out like a geyser. “What if there are complications? Unexpected pain? What if I need to describe symptoms?” All I can think about is what will happen when the counter goes back on.

What I don’t say is: What if I don’t want this baby? I already know the answer.

Dr. Mendoza waits for me to finish, eyes calm, mouth drooping slightly at the edges. I can’t tell whether this outburst of mine annoys him or invokes sympathy. “Mrs. McClellan,” he begins.

Not “Dr.,” not “Professor.” “Mrs.”

“Mrs. McClellan, you’re a healthy woman and we’ve picked up a strong, regular heartbeat. We’ve marked you as advanced maternal age, yes, which would worry me if this was a first pregnancy. But it isn’t. You have nothing to worry about. I’m confident you’ll carry to term and, let’s see”—he pauses, spins some dials on that little wheel doctors use, even though they have computers to do the work—“deliver a fine baby around December twentieth of this year. A nice Christmas present.”

I don’t want a fine baby around December 20 of this year. I don’t want a baby at all. Especially if it’s a girl.

“Dr. McClellan will have all the information.” He taps the sealed envelope. “He’ll be on the lookout for signs of trouble, loss of appetite, changes in skin tone or weight, and so forth. And we’ll be monitoring your progress regularly. If you like, I can set up a chorionic villus sampling for you early next week. You’ll find out the sex then.” The doctor consults a schedule on his iPad. “How is Monday afternoon?”

I nod. Monday, Wednesday, next month, December 20. I might as well find out sooner.

Now he taps my knee. A fatherly tap. Or the kind of touch you’d use on a well-behaved dog. I wish the tap would send my foot shooting out and upward, smack into his groin. I could always say it was an involuntary reflex, a spasm. “Okay. All set. Congratulations, Mrs. McClellan.”

He leaves, and I rush into my underwear, jeans, blouse. The smell of latex and hand sanitizer in this room has become unbearable. My sex is slippery with K-Y Jelly, or whatever they use for the ultrasound, because I didn’t take the time to wipe it away. But I can’t breathe here. I can’t breathe at all.

I drive the long way back home, stopping at a 7-Eleven to pick up a pack of Camels. I could smoke it out of me, I think, poison the little palace, practice Teratology 101 in the privacy of my own home. Abortion the old-fashioned way.

An abortion is not an option.