Sending the Report
"My God..." she gasped. "Do you have a scan or photo? Send it now! I’ll look." "Yes! Right away!" Clutching this hope, I fumbled with the camera, snapping a picture of the yellowed report spread on the countertop and sending it instantly. The whoosh of the sent photo echoed; I gripped the phone, blood roaring in my ears. Each second elongated. Faint arguing drifted from the living room—Mark’s shouts, Susan’s terse replies. Leaning against the cold fridge, I stared at the screen, its glow reflecting my ashen face.
Awaiting Response
Ann fell silent, likely scrutinizing the image. Time crawled; kitchen light seemed to congeal. Every moment stretched into eternity. My thoughts raced—the report’s crimson seal, Mark’s oath-sworn face, the boy’s Mark-like eyes... Agony. Finally, the phone vibrated—a text from Ann. Trembling, I opened it. Words slammed into my heart: "Jennifer, I examined your report photo." "The conclusion stands: extremely low motility." "But... this seal."
Ann's Doubt
"The color seems off—too bright... artificial? And the edges are overly sharp. Our hospital seals from that era always wore down, blurring slightly." "Yours... looks too 'new.' Are you certain this is the original Mark gave you?" The final line pierced like an icicle: "I advise confirming this source. This seal... looks dubious." Ann’s words struck like lightning through my fog. "Seal... dubious?" The phrase loomed, spinning. Mark and Susan’s argument faded, muffled as if behind glass. Stiffly, I turned, peering into the living room.
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