Page 59 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

I never gave him my last name. I never told him where I lived. I blocked his number, left a one-word note, and disappeared before sunrise like the world’s least elegant ghost.

This is what I wanted.

One night. No strings. No questions. No follow-up.

Pure fun, I told myself.

Fun. What a ridiculous little word for a night that still lives under my skin.

“Ms. Hanes,” Petra says.

I pull the robe tighter around myself. “Petra.”

Her eyes flick over me once. Hair. Face. Robe. Bare feet. Not judgmental exactly.

No, that’s generous. Judgmental, but professionally laminated.

“I’m here to collect the blood sample.”

I blink. “Here?”

“Yes.”

“For the pregnancy test?”

“Yes.”

The hallway is cold. Or maybe I am.

“I could have come to the clinic,” I say. “I was going in this afternoon anyway.”

Petra’s expression doesn’t change. “There is no need.”

“There’s a need if you’re standing in my hallway at eight in the morning with a tiny medical suitcase.”

“The arrangement includes at-home collection where appropriate.”

“I don’t remember requesting that.”

“Mr. Chandler prefers limiting unnecessary exertion during this phase.”

I stare at her.

Unnecessary exertion.

I’m two seconds away from telling her I once took an exam with a fever and a granola bar in my pocket, but I don’t. Mostly because she would probably write it down.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You need your rest.”

“I’m a med student,” I deadpan. “We don’t do that.”

Petra gives me a look. Not a blink. Not quite a frown. A look. The kind that says she has taken my statement, reviewed it, found it lacking, and filed it under expected deficiencies.

I sigh and step back. “Come in.”

She enters my apartment like she’s crossing into a space that has failed inspection.