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"Sure. And I’m really a blonde."

I shoot her a look.

She smiles right back.

"I mean it," I say. "Everybody keeps acting like I'm dying."

"Everybody keeps acting like you've been throwing up for weeks."

"People get sick."

"Yeah, and they go see a doctor and find out why."

I huff and fold my arms.

Maggie mirrors me. "Get dressed."

There's a lifetime of sisterly blackmail packed into those two short words. She knows exactly how long to hold eye contact, exactly how stubborn to be, and exactly how to make me realize I've already lost.

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of her car.

Technically against my will.

Realistically, Maggie's been dragging me around since she was five, and I've yet to figure out how to stop her.

The clinic sits in a converted house on a corner lot, with soft chairs, framed landscapes, and a coffee station tucked beside a shelf of outdated magazines. The place feels designed to convince nervous people that everything's fine.

It's not working.

I sit in the waiting room with my arms folded across my stomach, staring at the front door and calculating how quickly I could reach it.

Maggie follows my gaze. "Don't even think about it."

I look at her. "What are you going to do? Call the police?”

"No, just drag you back inside by her hoodie."

"It would be just like you to cause a scene."

She shrugs. "You bet."

The receptionist calls my name before I can test whether Maggie’s bluffing.

I shoot her a warning look as we both rise to follow the nurse. Because of course, she’s coming with me.

The appointment begins the way appointments always do. The doctor asks questions while typing notes into a computer. How long have I been sick? How often am I nauseous? Any recent changes?

I answer automatically, trying to ignore Maggie's presence in the corner.

The doctor is warm and easy to talk to, which becomes a problem almost immediately. It's a lot harder to brush things off when the person asking questions seems genuinely concerned.

Then she starts asking about dates.

My stomach twists.

The questions sound ordinary enough, but my brain grabs onto every one of them. When was your last period? Have your cycles been regular? Could you be pregnant?

I hate that question.