The nurse was free, no wait, and she spent an entire hour with me. Offered me many different tests, explained each one.

Laying on the table, she's doing her thing down there, and then she starts to get flustered. Not a good sign. Says my cervix is friable. Great.

I could tell that she was concerned, though she was trying hard to mask her feelings. Told me to wait for results and take it from there.

My head between my knees, the world squeezing in from the edges, three vials of my blood on the desk.

My blood and cells flying around the province. Forms with my name, my slides under microscopes, people dialing my number.

Nothing is wrong, right?

I leave the clinic and sit in the car trying to call Daniel. He is out of town, 800 km away. He doesn't answer. Junkies hustle in and out of the clinic, I hear them joking with the male outreach worker.

I drive home, turn into the driveway. Piles of snow ten feet tall from the plow. My arm aches and my insides ache and my fingers ache from biting my mails to the quick.

Late at night he texts me. He is having fun. I don't tell him what they told me.