“High opinion of your chaotic thinking,” she corrects. “Smart people do very stupid things when they’re scared. I’d rather nip that before it even blooms.”
The steam from my mug curls up and disappears as I count the curls. “And if I do keep it? Hypothetically.”
“Then you’re going to need real care,” Dr. L informs me. “Scans. Labs. Someone who’s checking on more than your ability to walk into a fire and walk back out again. I can cover some of that off the record for a while, but not forever. Long enough for you to decide what comes after hypothetical.”
“You’re very calm about this,” I scoff.
“I’m practiced,” she says. “It’s not my job to worry about anything but you and to give you the information available.” One corner of her mouth lifts. “Inside, I am imagining several very creative ways to set Cicadas’ files on fire.”
A small, sad laugh escapes my lungs. “Get in line. Sterling is ready to set everything on fire if I even flinch the wrong way.”
“Then he sounds like someone who would be in your corner, Kiera.” She nudges the test a few centimeters farther onto the towel. “Here’s what I care about tonight. One, you don’t collapse on my floor. Two, you don’t go home and pretend this didn’t happen, and three, you don’t let anyone else decide what happens next before you do.”
“That’s a lot of don’ts.”
“Fine.” Dr. L shakes her head. “Here’s a do—let me take blood, run the labs, and text you the numbers. Then you go and answer one question as honestly as you can.”
“Which is?”
“Do you want this? Not what the program would want. Not what Sterling would want. You.”
Sterling’s face flashes up immediately, jaw tight, eyes too bright in ruined stained glass, hands steady even when everything else shook. His mouth on my skin, my name under his ribs, the way he said choose and meant devour. We’re both broken. Could we even handle this? Properly love this child? “I don’t know,” I say. It feels like the truest thing I’ve said all night. “I don’t know yet.”
“And that is allowed. You just found out five minutes ago,” she says soothingly. “You’re a moving target, and God knows they fucking trained you to be one. Your questions and thoughts are valid. They show that while you’re scared, you still care enough about what’s inside you to try and make an informed decision.”
Silence settles again; the test still lies between us, screaming at my anxiety to run away. “Okay.” I take a deep breath, pushing all my feelings to the side for now. “Take my blood and add it to your secret pile.”
Dr. L stands. “Arm,” she says, already in motion. “If you pass out, I reserve the right to make fun of you later.”
“If I pass out, it’s not the needle,” I mutter, offering my arm. “It’s the part where my life just got shattered in more ways than one.”
Dr. L loops the tourniquet around my bicep with efficient hands, feeling for a vein. She finds the vein on the first try, and the needle slides in with a sting. Vials fill one by one, dark and accusing—each soft click against the tray another reminder that there’s no stuffing this back in the box now. “Breathe,” she reminds me.
“I am.”
“Good. Now try actually doing it before you pass out,” Dr. L answers. Dragging in a slower breath, I use the box breathing technique I taught myself.In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. When she’s done, she tapes a cotton ball over the puncture and loosens the tourniquet with a snap. “There.” She strips off the gloves, tosses them, and starts labeling vials in neat, precise handwriting. “I’ll run these tonight. You’ll have numbers by morning.”
“You’re efficient,” I comment.
“Efficiency is the only way I know how to be. You driving straight back?” She glances up as she cleans up the area.
“Unless you’re offering a couch and a new identity.”
“One of those I can manage,” she says. “The other takes paperwork.”
Standing, I rinse my mug in the sink because it’s something to do with my hands, setting it down on the rack. “You sure this stays off the radar?” I question. “There can be no flags, no alerts, and no one wondering why one of their lab rats has extra tests ordered.”
“I don’t use their labs,” Dr. L scoffs. “I know people who still remember what confidentiality means. And who still owes me.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll try not to get you killed collecting on your IOUs.”
“Do me a favor and don’t get yourself killed either,” she says lightly. “I’m short on patients who actually listen.”
I snort. “You call this listening?”
“You came. That’s more than most. More than you normally would.” It shouldn’t feel like a compliment.
Making my way to the door, I hesitate, the night pressing against the glass like it’s eavesdropping. “If this…if anything looks wrong in the labs,” I say, “you call me even if it’s the middle of the night.”
