Page 49 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“Hormonal crash. Dehydration. Stress response. Pregnancy.”

I closed the search, opened it again, then closed it.

“No,” I said as the sound of an alpha played like a record in my mind.

“We’re going to put a baby in you.” My eyes popped out of my skull. Please no, I did not beg him to do it.

“A baby.” My voice sounded small in the room as I fell flat on my back and stared at the ceiling.

A pharmacy sat three blocks away.

I put on my coat, grabbed my wallet, and walked there with the determination of an omega going to purchase nausea medication and absolutely nothing else.

I am not pregnant. I can’t be. I could hear my sister’s voice in my head telling me, “You need to go to a heat clinic, they manage everything. Give you medication to prevent a pregnancy.” Not that she heeded her own advice.

The pharmacy smelled of lavender. I wanted to be sick again. A bell chimed over the door as it closed. An older man in a puffer jacket argued with the cashier about coupons that were out of date.

I went straight to the stomach aisle.

Antacids. Motion sickness tablets. Ginger chews. Electrolytes.

I picked up a box of nausea medication and read the label three times without absorbing a word.

Then I saw the pregnancy tests across the aisle. They were arranged in cheerful pink and blue boxes as if they contained birthday candles rather than existential threats.

“I’m not pregnant.” My hand tightened around the nausea medication.

I walked away for two steps, then three. Then I turned back.

“This is just in case the antacids don’t work,” I told the box as I picked it up.

A woman comparing vitamins glanced at me.

And in case the first test said positive, I bought a second and made my way to the counter.

“Do you have a rewards number?” the cashier asked.

“No.”

“Want one? It’s free. I just need your email address.”

“I’m all right, thank you.”

“It’s a five percent discount.” She glanced at the pregnancy tests. “You might need it.”

“Today isn’t really a five percent sort of day. It’s a ‘I need a miracle day.’”

Back in the dorm bathroom, I took the first test.

Then I sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at the sink for three minutes. The sink had a crack near the tap. I’d never noticed it before. It became, briefly, the most important crack in the world. At least until the timer went off.

I picked up the test and stared at the positive result.

Positive.

“No… I can’t look after myself, never mind a baby.” I peed on the second test with all the strain I had left in me.

Positive.