She blinked. “This isn’t right,” she said softly. The nurse leaned closer. “Hmm?” Tula pointed at the field. “That’s not my birthday. I was born in 1951. September nineteenth.” The nurse chuckled lightly, not unkindly. “Oh—must be a printing error. We’ve had a rough week. I’ll just cross it out.”
Tula’s fingers hovered over the page, pen unmoving. Something in her chest curled tight. She signed, slowly. But her mind didn’t move on. May 7, 1980. Forty-four years old. Exactly the age the ultrasound technician had off-handedly mentioned being written on the report today.