The hospital gown didn’t fit.

Elizabeth tugged at the edges in front, but all that did was pinch her armpits. The worn, thin material couldn’t stretch any more. It would tear if she yanked harder. And the young woman who’d led the way to the curtained dressing booths had said to leave the gown open in front, so Elizabeth couldn’t reverse the garment.

The jeans covered some of her, but not enough.

She didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror. No need to see her breasts and upper belly spilling through the opening, the flesh pale and pebbled by the chill of the Marysburg hospital.

Any other time, the embarrassment and discomfort might have brought stinging color to her cheeks, even though over four decades of life as a plus-size woman and many visits to this very hospital—and its very inadequate gowns—should have inured her to such indignities. But today, no. She wouldn’t pray the hospital would invest in bigger gowns or wonder what those spotting her would think about her weight.

Marysburg General was offering free mammograms today, or at least cooperating with the local breast cancer awareness organization who’d advertised the event. That was good enough for her, even if she had to parade down the antiseptic-scented hallways half-naked.

She didn’t know who was really paying for the mammograms, the hospital or the organization. She didn’t care. The money wasn’t coming from her depleted checking account, and the results from today should relieve weeks of fear.

So she simply held her sweater in front of the gap in her gown, covering all the crucial bits, and drew back the curtain with a metallic rattle. The tech who’d led her to the dressing room was working at a nearby computer, her dark brows knitted.

She looked up after a moment, then winced when she saw Elizabeth’s predicament. “I’m sorry.” Her ponytail swished as she shook her head. “We’ve been so busy today, I forgot to get you the right type of gown. If you want to go back into your dressing room, I can bring you one.”

No. Elizabeth couldn’t wait another moment.

“It’s fine.” She glanced at the name on the woman’s badge, her cheeks aching from a forced smile. “Thank you for the offer, Cailyn. But I figure I’m supposed to be flashing the goods soon anyway, right?”

Cailyn’s shoulders relaxed. “True enough. And the room is just down the hall. Follow me.”

They proceeded past several doorways and the bustling nurses’ station before entering the room with the mammogram machine. It looked newish, shiny and clean, although Elizabeth knew she couldn’t expect 3D images from it. Not when someone else was paying.

The machine. The chairs. The table. Everything in this space was familiar. Nothing had changed since last year’s mammogram, other than her insurance status.

And one other terrifying, crucial detail.

Despite the coolness of the hospital, slick perspiration had gathered under her arms. Deodorant could throw off mammograms, of course, so she hadn’t used any that morning. She suspected she’d have been sweating either way, though.

“Um…” She licked her lips and tasted blood. The dry air of late winter always caused chapping if she wasn’t careful, and she hadn’t been paying much attention to anything outside her own head in recent days. “You might want to look closely at my right breast.”

Cailyn paused in her adjustment of the machine. “All right.”

“In the shower last month, I found a—” She faltered, then made herself finish. “I found a lump along the side. Toward the middle. You can’t see it, but it’s pretty easy to feel. I think it’s a cyst, since I tend to get those, but I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Hmm.” Cailyn crossed the room and flipped through Elizabeth’s various registration forms. “Have you discussed this issue with a primary care physician? Especially given your family history and risk factors?”

Her weight. Her time as a smoker in her twenties. Her grandmothers. All things she’d noted on those forms. All things she’d been unable to forget since she’d slicked Ivory soap over her breast and felt…something.

Under any other circumstances, she’d have rushed to Dr. Sterling’s office weeks ago, and her doctor would have insisted on a diagnostic mammogram, rather than a simple screening.

But much as she’d like to create an alternative reality, one in which she could afford unlimited doctor’s visits even without insurance, she couldn’t. “No. I haven’t seen her.”

Since Elizabeth was taking advantage of a program offering free mammograms to uninsured Marysburg residents, Cailyn likely understood the situation without further explanation. At the very least, she didn’t ask any more questions.

“All right.” Brown eyes kind, Cailyn gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to get crystal-clear images.”

And then the normal routine began. How many times had she had this procedure? Seven? Ten? Definitely every year since she’d turned forty, and Dr. Sterling had ordered at least one baseline mammogram before then. By this point, Elizabeth knew the basics of how to angle her body and her arm, how to lean into the machine when necessary and hold still.

Her left breast compressed between the glass plates, and as always, she noted its resemblance to an unbaked loaf of ciabatta. Dimpled, off-white, and vaguely rectangular.

Two images, like normal. Then the tech helped her switch sides, and her right breast went between the plates. More pressure as they squeezed together once more, spreading her into an even layer as effectively as her favorite rolling pin did pie dough.

Elizabeth tried to concentrate on that vision, letting its familiar sweetness distract her. Rolling out a disc of dough and transferring it into a pie plate. Cutting off the overhang and crimping the edges. Inspecting the little bits of butter within the dough, which would provide flakiness as they melted and steamed in the heat of the oven. Filling the shell with thin-cut apples, tossed with cinnamon-sugar, lemon juice, a few more pats of butter, and a pinch of salt. Weaving a lattice of dough strips for the top and brushing them with cream for extra browning.

From the humid warmth of her mental bakery, she heard and obeyed Cailyn’s gentle directives. Position. Freeze. Reposition. Freeze.

Then Cailyn told her to breathe again, and Elizabeth inhaled deeply, her chest loosening for the first time in weeks. The two standard images of her right breast had been taken. Any moment now, the tech would tell her to put the gown back on and return to the dressing room. She’d don her bra and sweater and find out in a few days that the stupid lump was meaningless, nothing of concern.

This horrible month would have a happy ending, and she could go back to worrying about normal things, like that rattle in her car or whether she had enough extra money to maintain her small monthly donation to Planned Parenthood.

All stressful considerations, of course, but not nightmarish. Not anything that would keep her sleepless for weeks on end, waiting for the next free mammogram event nearby.

But Cailyn didn’t smile and say they were done. Instead, she bit her lip. Fiddled with the machine, looking at God knew what on the screen.

Another repositioning, and then the tech took one more image. Two more.

Elizabeth coughed as the pressure in her chest returned and ratcheted tighter.

“Are you okay?” The smile crinkling the corners of Cailyn’s eyes had disappeared. “Do you need a minute?”

She didn’t need a minute. She needed insurance. She needed her mom. She needed a stalwart barrier between her and a world abruptly turned frigid and terrifying.

“I’m fine.” Another approximation of a smile, and then she couldn’t help but say it. “Does everything look okay?”

Every year, she asked the same question, and she always got the same answer. The tech couldn’t make that determination, and the radiologist reading the images would send a report to Dr. Sterling within five business days.

Usually, though, the tech would seem relaxed and smile in a way that told Elizabeth what she needed to know. The images were fine. She was fine.

This time, however, Cailyn remained silent for several heartbeats before speaking, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Your doctor should hear from the radiologist within three to five business days.” Another pause. “Or sooner. The radiologist might have time to look at this today. I’ll check with her.”

The kindness, the probable reason for it, paralyzed Elizabeth in a way a brusque dismissal wouldn’t have.

“Even when she sees abnormalities, most of the time it’s nothing. Calcifications or a cyst or something harmless. A simple biopsy can tell you one way or another.”

Cailyn’s voice had become a little higher, the pace of her words a little more rapid, probably because she wasn’t supposed to say any of these things to a patient. But she was young and concerned and not experienced enough to disguise either.

“So don’t wor—” The other woman cut herself off. “Anyway, you should hear soon. Let’s take one more image, and then get you back into your nice, warm sweater.”

Elizabeth was pretty sure she’d never be warm again.

Another slight repositioning, another held breath, and it was done. She walked to the dressing area, her sweater held in front of her exposed flesh like a shield. Behind the cloth curtain, she peeled off the too-tight gown, hooked her bra, slicked on the deodorant stashed in her purse, and pulled the sweater over her head, tugging it past her hips.

Then she braced her hands against the wall and dropped her head to her chest.

After a few minutes, Cailyn spoke on the other side of the curtain, her tone gentle. “Are you okay, Ms. Stone?”

The poor kid had asked that question before, and the answer would be the same. The answers, really.

Not at all. Not for months, and definitely not now.

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said.

Later that afternoon, as Cailyn had promised, the call came.