The highway is close. Then a straight shot to the doctor’s. She takes the last bend off the weaving, country road. The highway is in sight. She doesn’t bother slowing down. She passes the stop sign lying on the edge of the road—a victim of a drunken teenagers attempt to miss a wondering deer. The car swerves onto the highway–fishtailing away. But it doesn’t matter. She has to make it to the doctor. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Salty sweat pours down her forehead and stings her eyes as it makes it way down past her red veined cheeks, over her pressed lips, and falls off her dimpled chin and stains her dressing gown with yet another of her own liquids. And then a searing pain worse than any of the others takes over her stomach. She lurches forward into the steering wheel, which she has let free of her hands. Her eyes shut automatically—a feeble attempt of the body to reduce the pain.