KAT
Shifting Truths
The ultrasound wand presses cold against my stretched skin while Holly frowns at the monitor, making those little humming noises that medical professionals use when they're trying not to alarm you. October light filters through the trailer's windows, casting everything in amber while the machine shows wavering gray shapes that pulse with heartbeats—three distinct rhythms that have become the soundtrack to my existence. The gel is cold enough to make me shiver, or maybe that's the way Holly's expression keeps shifting between clinical interest and something that looks alarmingly like concern.
"Well," Holly sets the wand aside, wiping gel from my enormous belly with practiced efficiency that speaks of years delivering bad news to Cumberland wives. "That's interesting."
