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Deanne

Deanne is in her forty-ninth trimester and that, like she, doesn’t sit right.

“You’re still not going to induce?” she says, wincing. Her back always hurts. Her feet are water balloons.

“Haven’t missed your due date yet,” smiles the doctor, who isn’t a guy like you’re thinking.

“And why won’t you tell me what that–”

“Patriot Act,” the doctor says.

Deanne’s done the math herself, but numbers collapse under the sheer fact of her belly. Exercise. She tries to make herself climb stairs; she knows it won’t help. Her body is a prison. She wishes somebody would tell her the charges.

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