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I would do anything to get her home and I’m determined to do so.

But there’s something else wrong, and it has to do with me.

I’ve chalked it up to stress because, well, look at this entire situation. But there are other symptoms that are starting to make me panic a little.

I’ve been more nauseous than usual and there’s ebbs and flows to it.

My breasts have been tender too and taking my bra off in the evenings soemtimes hurts.

I’ve also been really tired.

Granted, I’m always tired because you know, doctor, but this is a different type of bone-tired.

I’ve found myself dozing while helping to put Seraphina down for a nap and have even passed out in the library, a book over my face.

Each symptom on its own means nothing.

Stress does strange things. Captivity does worse things.

All of these things are easily explainable.

Until this morning, after I’ve gone to the bathroom, I realize my period is late.

Very late.

And in that moment, it’s like the earth is standing still as my frozen fingers release the toilet paper that was clutched in my head.

I watch it flutter to the ground but don’t really register any of it.

When was my period supposed to arrive?

My mouth dries as I start doing the mental math.

My period has always been kind of wonky and I’ve never been completely regular, but even for me this is late.

I shake my head once I land on my figure.

“No,” I murmur to myself, maybe a touch frantically. “No, that can’t be right.”

So I do the math again. And again. But here’s the problem. I’ve always been good at math—I took a differential equations class in college for fun—so I know my figures aren’t wrong.

But I desperately want them to be wrong and after the fourth time I’ve run the calculations, I know I’ve got to stop because the numbers aren’t changing.

I stop breathing. No. There’s no way.

Except yes, there is a way and it’s happened multiple times, including the very first time, over two weeks ago on a kitchen counter and neither of us thought about anything as practical as protection because neither of us was thinking about anything except each other.

My knees feel weak and I grip the counter, trying to calm my breathing as it comes in gasps.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. You don’t know anything yet. Stress delays cycles all the time. This proves nothing.

But I don’t believe myself.

I’m a doctor for god’s sake.

I know exactly how crappy that argument is because I’ve heard terrified teenagers make that same argument at the clinic I used to intern at when they were trying to convince themselves they weren’t…that they weren’t…

God, I can’t even say it.