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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.