I strip down to my sweater.
The room is overheated but it suits her.
She has me sit on the plastic-covered settee, handsfolded, eyes darting around the little kitchen like she's measuring my stress by the teaspoon count in the sink.
There's a teapot steaming on the counter, its whistle unplugged.
She pours two mugs, sets one in front of me, then sits on the ottoman and pushes a small rolling case out from beneath the table with her foot.
We drink in silence for a long while.
The window is fogged, the world outside blurred and soft like a memory.
She studies my face, searching for the part that might break.
"Your color's off. You've lost weight, and recently."
"Whoops."
She doesn't smile.
Instead, she opens the rolling case and lays out her tools.
No white coats or waiting-room gloss.
Just a portable ultrasound unit, clean gel bottles, and a blood pressure cuff held together with two kinds of tape.
She doesn't ask questions.
She reaches for my wrist, checks my pulse.
Presses at my neck, then the inside of my elbow.
The stethoscope tubing has been mended with heat-shrink and patience.
"Lie back."
I obey.
She lifts my sweater, rolls the waistband of my leggings just low enough, applies the gel without warning.
The device hums to life in her hands.
I don't look at the screen.
"Six weeks," she says, more to herself than me.
"No abnormalities. No sign of trouble. And there's two."
I stare at the ceiling, where a water stain has spread in the shape of a fish.
"Wow. That's a lot to process."
She helps me clean up.
"There's a pharmacy on Camden Street. Tell them you need a refill for Fr. O'Shea, and they'll give you the right vitamins. Who else knows?"
"Just Lena."
