Waiting Room

Maya's palm went cold, then hot, then cold again. She alternated between pressing it against her thigh and holding it up to the fluorescent lights, watching the skin go translucent, searching for something—lines, clarity, anything to explain why her body kept failing her.

The receptionist called her name, and she grabbed her purse. Inside, her phone vibrated—a text from David: *What did they say?* She ignored it. The screen lit up with another notification: her sister had posted a photo of her newborn's first smile. Maya shoved the phone deeper into her bag like it was burning her.

She'd been taking the prenatal vitamins for two years now. The orange bottle sat on their nightstand, a cheerful accusation that grew smaller each month. David still took his too, some solidarity ritual he'd read about on a forum for desperate couples. They were running out of rituals.

At home, Barnaby was waiting. Her sister's golden retriever, on loan while the family dealt with some medical emergency—because wasn't that always the way? Everyone else's life bloomed while Maya's remained stuck in perpetual winter. The dog bounded to the door when she entered, his tail a metronome of uncomplicated joy. She sank to the floor and buried her face in his fur, breathing in his earthy, living smell.

Her phone pinged again from the kitchen counter. *Please, Maya.* She'd told him not to come. Some things needed to be carried alone first.

She sat back against the wall, Barnaby's head heavy on her knee, and finally pulled out the phone. The ultrasound image was there, saved to her camera roll: a grainy black-and-white ghost. She'd stared at it for forty minutes with the technician, both of them pretending there was something to see.

Maya opened her messaging app and typed: *Not this time either.* Then deleted it. Typed: *I'm done.* Deleted that too.

Barnaby whined and nudged her hand with his wet nose. She stroked his soft ears, thinking about how this dog would eventually go back to her sister, who'd complain about the shedding while her husband chased the baby around the living room. Everyone got something.

Maya opened a new message to David. Her palm had stopped shaking. She typed: *Make dinner. I'll tell you when I get home.*

She stood up, knees popping, and grabbed the dog's leash. Some winters, you had to walk through before you could see what was left when the snow melted.