“Elle Rivera?” The woman says again in her chirpy voice.
I drop my mustard-drenched hotdog like it’s on fire, resisting the urge to puke.
Elle Rivera.
Right. That name. That stupid, fake name I gave the sketchy clinic.
“Hi! Just calling to let you know we got your results from the routine screening,” says the nurse. Her voice is too cheery, cheerier than anyone delivering a potential death sentence should be. “The doctor would like to go over them with you in person.”
In person. Not over the phone. Not in a cute little email with emojis and non-threatening language. In person. Which in medical speak, means either:
A) You’re about to die.
B) You have something so infectious, so deadly, the CDC wants to name it after you.
“Tomorrow?” I say, voice shaking like a leaf.
“Yup. We’re ope
