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My stomach flips again.

I wrap my arms around myself, and I try to focus on the sterile environment—the stark white walls, the chairs lined up with military precision, the glossy magazines untouched on the side tables. The receptionist’s smile does little to ease the nausea brewing within me.

After I sign in, I shuffle to one of the chairs in the corner, my fingers shaking as I grasp onto the silver cross dangling around my neck. I barely have time to sit down before I hear the door leading to the back creak open.

“Mercy Clarke?”

I look up to see the nurse smiling at me from the open door across the room, her eyes as blue as the sky outside.

That was fast.

I pick myself up off the chair and shuffle after her, one arm wrapped around my churning stomach in hopes that the nausea will go away.

It doesn’t.

Every step is too much, and I have to struggle to keep it down.

“When was your last period?”

Her voice is a lifeline, and I cling to it. She stands there, smiling at me, her eyes carrying a softness that feels almost out of place in the clinical surroundings.

“Uhm,” I muttered, thinking hard.

When was it?

I couldn’t remember now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling stupid. “I can’t remember.”

“That’s fine!” she assures me, giving me a soft smile as she hands me a little orange cup and a tiny wrapped up sanitary wipe. “Are you on birth control?”

I shake my head.

“Let’s get a urine test, and then I’ll meet you in room three, okay?”

I follow her, and each step feels like a mile.

I do as she asked, giving the sample and bashfully handing the cup back to her as she waits outside the room.

She guides me into the room, explaining that she will be back, and closes the door. The examination table looms like a monster in the corner, covered in crisp paper that crinkles under my weight as I hop up onto it and wait.

I don’t have to wait long before Dr. Thompson walks in. She’s a tall, thin woman with short brown hair, lightening to silver at the edges. Her smile is always tight and unfeeling, but she’s nice enough despite that. Her hands are gentle as she takes my vitals, but the pressure of the cuff on my arm feels like judgment.

It’s tight. I don’t like it.

“Your blood pressure is a bit high,” she says.

“Is that bad?”

“It can be normal with stress.”

“Stress,” I echo.

Could that be the cause of all of this?

“So,” she says, picking my folder up from the table in the corner of the room. She flips it open. “You’re here for some unexpected nausea.”

I nod, my fingers shaking as I reach up and push a strand of hair behind my ear.