My blue sedan sat under the maple tree at the edge of the gravel driveway, its windows dark and its tires locked.

I walked two miles down the hill toward Market Street with the navy suitcase banging against my right knee at every step.

By eleven o’clock the next morning, the waiting room at First County Health Clinic was packed with twenty women in green vinyl chairs.

The air smelled of wet coats, floor wax, and scorched coffee from an old urn in the corner.

I sat near the intake window with my navy folder across my lap.