He worries about his jeans—sweatpants may have been wiser. He worries about a rush of over-eager blood after the young nurse asks him to remove them. He worries the doctor judges him when he answers, No children. Half-naked and cold on the table, he worries it’ll hurt despite the sharp numbing prick. He imagines wires gripped and roughly severed. Weeds ripped from the earth. He grits his teeth and worries that the burning smell is a happy future cauterized and gone.

And then it’s over.

On the bus ride home, he worries about stitches loosening—a blood spot blooming like a cherry. He sits in the back row, alone with worries and dull certainty that this was best for everyone until the bus reaches its last stop. Then he steps down and vanishes into the rain.