Page 131 of Oathbreaker

I don’t know why I do it. I just know that I have to do it.

So I wash them once. Then I follow the compulsion to wash them again.

Then again.

Then again.

I wash my hands six times, singing Happy Birthday all the way through.

Birthdays. Birthdays. I might be giving birth.

Oh, God.

I settle on the toilet seat, and when my bag slaps across my thigh, I remember the pregnancy tests in there.

Now is as good a time as ever. Right? I won’t get unpregnant-er by waiting.

Unless you miscarry.

My stomach clenches. Is this—is it starting? Is this the pain of me losing the baby?

The baby I don’t even know is real.

Stop. Breathe.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I’m a step down from panic-attack-imminent status. The boxes tap together in my bag, and I pull one out without overthinking it.

My hands shake so much that the paper insert with the instructions rattles in my hands. I can barely read the small print.

“Pee on the test. Hold it under the stream. Cap it. Let it do its thing,” I mutter once I get the gist of what I’m supposed to do.

The foil wrapper drops to the floor, fluttering like a rose petal, and I take the cap off the brand-new pink dye test.

“Here we go,” I say, breathing out against the cramping in my stomach.

I release my muscles, counting to five and capping the test to let it rest on my knee.

Breathe, Winter.

One.

One-two-one

One-two-three-two-one.

I watch mindlessly as my pee absorbs into the test material, chasing across the result window. The control line darkens as soon as it crosses the midline, and milliseconds later, another line materializes.

Maybe it will disappear?

These tests need time to process, right? Five minutes, according to what I gathered from the instructions. But as I stare at the cheap plastic, the line darkens even more, mocking my disbelief.

Positive. The pregnancy test is positive. I’m pregnant.

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