“I still think the hospital air smells like bleach and broken dreams.”

That’s what I say the second the nurse walks in. I think I mean it as a joke, but it comes out like a sigh. A weak one.

She laughs anyway. “Well, Miss Streams, good news. We’ve run your third-trimester BP logs and protein levels through again—no preeclampsia. You’re stable now.”

I blink. My fingers grip the blanket tighter. I want to feel happy. I should feel relieved. But instead, I just feel... raw.

“Your cortisol’s still elevated though,” she adds, looking at her tablet. “Stress’s no joke. We’re discharging you today, but under strict bed rest.”

Strict....