Two weeks into the school year, Ainsley felt off.

She'd assumed it was just the usual beginning-of-year exhaustion: early mornings, new routines, a little leftover anxiety from summer.

But then she started falling asleep at 8:30 every night.

And then she couldn't stomach her coffee.

One morning, she opened her fridge and gagged at the smell of raw chicken.

Calvin noticed right away.

"You've barely touched your oatmeal," he said.

"Just tired," she murmured, wrapping herself tighter in his hoodie.

"You've been tired for days."

She wanted to brush it off, but something sat heavy in her chest. Her hand slid down to her stomach, a whisper of suspicion flickering in her gut.

The next afternoon, when Calvin was at the hardware store fixing a jammed book return chute, Ainsley took a walk to the pharmacy.

She paced for twenty minutes in the bathroom before finally working up the nerve to look.

Two lines.

Two undeniable, life-altering lines.