She crossed her legs. Cracked her knuckles, crack, crack, crack, down one hand, then the other. She was full and feverish, awaiting an answer that could change it all. She had gone 3 months with no signs. "Weight loss," they said, "stress". She had listened, busying herself with plans. futures. She was "In control" of her own life.

Now, she was at risk for becoming a statistic. the "standard". Proving someone somewhere right about the ethics of her "lost" generation. She had achieved maturity. Independence. Self-assurance. It could all be lost in a New York minute.  The answer to her worries wasn't the most frightening part; it was the phone call she knew she must face afterwards.

Ambivalence. It was the remembrance of goodbye with the fear of hello.

Crack, crack, crack. She was pulling her hair out over nothing at all. Right?