“Look at the screen, Diego,” I said. My voice did not crack. It was quiet, level, and entirely devoid of tears.
Diego let out a short, nasal bark of laughter. He stepped around the cart, planting his heavy leather boots beside the rolling console, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at the eighteen-inch high-resolution monitor.
“What am I supposed to be looking at, Laura?” Diego sneered, pointing a gloved finger at the central pixelated gray mass. “A six-week embryo? An eight-week fetus? Go ahead, Doctor. Tell me the gestational age. Tell me it’s seven weeks along—right in the middle of that weekend she spent in Chicago visiting her sister while I was recovering from bilateral vasectomy surgery with ice packs on our couch.”
Dr. Salinas did not look up at him. She adjusted the frequency knob on the console with her left hand, increasing the acoustic gain.
