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Proserpina

Cool fingers press into her lower back. “Here?”

“Yes.” Proserpina grips the bench.

“And here.”

“Yes! You already–” She exhales, wishing the woman would just sock her in the jaw.

“Quite routine at this age,” says the nurse. “I’ll get a hot water bottle and a Bayer. You’ll be fine by morning. Ten girls with the same thing this week,” the nurse winks to Miss Havisham, “and four didn’t even have a test the next day.”

She bustles off to cabinets. “You didn’t tell her why I’m dressed,” says Proserpina quietly.

Miss Havisham’s silent eyes track three dots on Proserpina’s arm.

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