Josie was not one to pray, but lately she had begun having whispered, fevered conversations with God.
With her legs up in the air and her husband’s baby paste inside her.
Please let me get pregnant. Please let me get pregnant. Please let me get pregnant.
* * *
Laura turned her head away from the bathroom mirror, her eyes lasered on her smartphone, counting down the timer until she could look at the little plastic stick.
Please don’t let me be pregnant. Please don’t let me be pregnant. Please don’t let me be pregnant.
The timer dinged.
Laura looked.
Closed her eyes.
And had a whispered, fevered conversation with God, too.