1-Minute Fiction: Two. One.

The clipboard lay on her lap like a cold sheet of ice, the two-sided questionnaire filled with text and blank lines and checkboxes. Every year, her doctor required the form to be filled out with updated information. Ailments and medical history, exercise habits and consumption of alcohol, insomnia to shortness of breath, smoking and marital status.

She stared at the single line, halfway down the second side of the form. Two questions and two half-inch lines for her answers.

Alan sat beside her, his fingertips resting on the handle of the stroller. Inside, Emily slept. Each time Emily stirred, Alan moved the stroller back and forth a few inches, soothing her back to sleep with the gentle motion.

There were periodic moments that opened the wound, even if only for a single, brief spasm of pain. All of them, she and Alan shared. Dates on the calendar, mostly.

This one belonged to her alone. She squeezed the pen and forced herself to answer the questions before she clicked the pen closed, leaving the rest of the questionnaire incomplete.

Number of pregnancies: 2. Number of live births: 1

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