She’d had a miscarriage, the doctor said, once she was dressed. That was why she’d been in pain, why there was no fetus visible on the ultrasound. He was sorry for her loss. She felt a surge of relief, and teared up. The doctor mistook that for devastation. Gently, he began asking questions, his voice soothing.

Had she been trying to get pregnant? No. Did her partner know? No. Had she been pregnant before? Yes. How many kids did she have? None. Miscarriage? No, she said, an abortion, when she was 19 — and suddenly, something in the doctor changed. The questions kept coming, but they were clipped now, formal. They no longer sounded like they were meant to console. Had she taken misoprostol, a drug used in medication abortions? Did she use illicit drugs? What about alcohol? What kind of physical activity had she been doing recently?

It felt like an interrogation, as if she were being accused of doing something wrong, of causing the loss of a pregnancy she hadn’t even known about when she arrived at urgent care. She wanted to go home. She wished she hadn’t come to see the doctor at all.