THE MILITARY DOCTOR WAS A SHORT MAN. HE BLINKED THROUGH rimless glasses. He scribbled Luz’s succinct answers onto a clipboard. She lay on the table, paper crinkling under her, and stared at the brilliant fluorescents in the ceiling.
“Eight weeks,” she told him, “maybe nine.”
The doctor hummed and scribbled. “I believe,” he said, pausing, testing his words, “it is over. I am sorry.”
The ceiling lights burned into Luz’s corneas.
“There may be some cramping,” the doctor mumbled. “Some bleeding. But that will end soon.” He told her he could offer pain medication. The lights sizzled in the silence. “Nevertheless, you will want to see your own doctor when you return home.”
Luz closed her eyes.
“Do not worry, young lady.” His voice was softer now. He was trying to make her feel better. “When your cycle returns, you and your husband may try again.”