“I have bats in my belly,” I tell the third doctor this week. Another man, another exam room. Still: bats.

“Could you be pregnant?” he asks, stifling a yawn.

“There are already three bats in there, maybe four. Where would a fetus even fit?” I’ve always carried weight there, but not like this. Not until I remembered. Then the wings came, beating against my ribs.

“When was your last period?”

“Who cares about my period?” My voice cracks, louder than I mean to. The nurse steps toward the door but doesn’t leave. She just hovers, watching.

The doctor keeps talking. I’m not listening. I close my eyes and lean back. The paper robe crinkles—too small, gaping open. Tiny claws graze my insides.

I need someone to remove the bats. Before more memories hatch and multiply.