Chelsea was the franchise.

Her body was a product launch running behind schedule.

And the woman we both called Mom was the primary investor, and she was growing impatient.

I remember thinking, with cold, nurse-brained detachment: if a fifth round fails, someone in this family is going to get badly hurt.

I assumed, because the spotlight had never once swung toward the shadows where I stood, that the blow wouldn’t be mine to absorb.

Eight weeks later, two pink lines appeared on a plastic stick in my bathroom.