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“When were you planning to tell me?”

“The driver has the correct address.”

“That is not the same as telling me.”

“The change was finalized this morning.”

“Changed to where?”

A small pause.

“Dr. Price’s facility.”

For a moment, I say nothing. The car moves through traffic. My reflection in the window looks calm. That is funny, in a bleak way.

“Dalton’s clinic,” I say.

“Dr. Price’s facility,” Petra corrects.

“I had an appointment with Dr. Acharya.”

“Dr. Acharya will remain informed. Dr. Price requested the transfer of prenatal monitoring to his facility. Mr. Chandler approved it.”

Of course nobody asked me.

“Is there a reason,” I ask slowly, “that the pregnant person was not included in this thrilling group decision?”

Petra’s voice stays even. “The facility is better equipped.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the relevant answer.”

I look out the window. My pulse is climbing now, not panic exactly. Anger. Embarrassment. Something else under both, something I don’t want to name.

“Does he know I wasn’t told?” I ask.

“I can’t speak to Dr. Price’s assumptions.”

“That must be difficult for you.”

Another pause. This one is colder.

“Your appointment is in forty minutes,” Petra says. “Please proceed inside when you arrive. I will meet you there.”

The call ends.

I stare at the screen. For three seconds, I do nothing.

Then I open Dalton’s thread.

I told myself I wouldn’t text him. After the car. After Alester’s house. After the way he backed me against his car and told me to go home like he had any right to sound wounded and furious and careful all at once.

I told myself I wouldn’t.

My thumb doesn’t care.

Me: Did you move my appointment?