My breasts are tender in a way that makes even my cheap sports bra uncomfortable. I’ve been chalking it up to the stress of becoming a fugitive, to sleeping on shitty motel mattresses for weeks, to anything other than what it might actually mean. But the tenderness has gotten worse, not better. Now, even the soft cotton of my t-shirt feels like sandpaper against my skin.
The nausea comes and goes, usually in the mornings. I’ve been blaming the questionable diner food we’ve been living on. A diet of greasy eggs and burnt toast and coffee that tastes like it was brewed in a sweaty shoe isn’t exactly chicken soup for the soul, nor for the bone density. But it happens even when I haven’t eaten. A nasty, boiling queasiness that makes my mouth water and my knees tremble.
And my period. I’ve mi
