Epilogue
ART
“I’m telling you,” Lemon says, her voice muffled by the gas mask. “I smell an alcohol swab.”
The doctor—or Ava, as she insists on being called—rolls her eyes, but only so I can see. “Impossible,” she says. “Your husband made it crystal clear that you have a smell sensitivity, so I personally made sure there were no open alcohol swabs in this room. Or lunch leftovers. Or any hint of perfume. Or—”
Lemon grunts in frustration inside her gas mask. “The swab is in a nearby room.”
Ava looks at me pleadingly.
“My kislik.” I lovingly pat the part of Lemon’s belly that isn’t covered in gel. “The sooner this ultrasound can start, the sooner I can get you into fresh air.”
“Right.” Lemon turns to Ava. “Do it then. Quickly.”
Ava does her thing—and to her credit, she doesn’t blink a
