Page 37 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“You’re measuring close to seven weeks,” she says.

The doctor says something gently, but I don’t catch all of it. My eyes stay on the screen, and my hand curls around the edge of the paper beneath me.

“Heartbeat,” the doctor says, pointing with one careful finger.

I ask for a printout.

“A keepsake,” I say, and I laugh once because it sounds foolish and dangerous with a guard waiting outside the door.

The doctor looks at me for a second, then prints the scan with basic instructions beneath it. Folic acid, food warnings, call for bleeding, severe pain, fever, fainting, or anything that feels wrong. She hands it over without comment.

“If anyone asks,” I say, “this was a routine check. Fatigue and nausea. Nothing urgent.”

Her eyes flick once toward the door.

“Please.”

She nods, once. I open the clinic paper. It has week-by-week baby-size images printed down one side.

I look at the tiny scan. “It looks like a pea.”

The doctor’s mouth softens. She reaches for a pen and holds it out. “Write that down.”

I take the pen and add one line under the scan.

Seven weeks. A sweet pea.

Then I fold the printout and slide it into my bag. I pull my sweater down, then run a hand over my face and fix my mouth before I stand.

When I step back into the hallway, my shoulders are set, my voice is level.

“Just something for the nausea,” I say and start for the stairs before the guard can ask more.

I go to the bakery from the clinic because pastry gives me an excuse to buy time.

The guards follow me in, close enough to make the girl behind the counter stop chewing her gum for half a second. I order the chocolate date square, an almond roll, honey cake, and coffee because buying too much looks less suspicious than standing around doing nothing. While she packs everything, I keep scanning for a break.

It comes fast.

A boy in a school jacket rushes past with coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other, then clips my shoulder hard enough to splash coffee across my sleeve.

“Sorry,” he blurts.

The guards move on him at once.

“Back off,” one snaps.

The boy blinks. “I said sorry.”

“Don’t talk.”

People turn. Perfect.

I turn toward the napkin stand, pull the clinic printout from my bag, and fold it twice. The coffee spill gives me cover. I slide the paper under the loose lining inside my handbag, then turn back wiping my sleeve.

“For God’s sake,” I say. “It was coffee, not an assassination attempt.”

Coming out of the bakery, I hear it.