The nurse who called us back was kind in the brisk way hospital people get when they are trying to be gentle and efficient at the same time.
She took Maya’s temperature.
She checked her pulse.
She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Maya’s thin arm and frowned at the numbers without saying why.
Maya watched the cuff inflate like it had personally offended her.
I tried to smile.
She did not smile back.
In the exam room, the paper on the bed crinkled under her.
The air smelled like antiseptic, latex gloves, and burnt coffee drifting in from somewhere down the hall.
Dr. Lawson came in a few minutes later.
He looked to be in his fifties, with silver at his temples and the calm, tired eyes of a man who had delivered both good news and terrible news too many times to perform either one.
He asked Maya when the pain started.
She looked at me first.
That told him something.
He asked again, softer.
“About a month,” she said.
My heart dropped.
A month.
I had known weeks.
She had carried it longer.
Dr. Lawson asked about food, school, sleep, weight, medications, and whether the pain moved or stayed in one place.
Maya answered in short sentences.
Sometimes she swallowed hard before speaking.
Sometimes she pressed her hand under the edge of her hoodie and waited for the pain to pass.
He ordered blood work and an ultrasound.
He said it like a routine step, but I saw the way his eyes moved from Maya’s face to her stomach and back again.
The blood draw came first.
Maya hated needles, but she held still.
I watched her jaw clench.
A purple band appeared around her arm where the tourniquet had been.
The nurse labeled the tubes and placed them in a plastic bag with a printed sticker.
Name.
