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radiation. If I experience vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, dizziness, weakness, or end up with a fever, I must return immediately. Apparently, there’s also the chance of death at any point in the next two weeks if there was actual exposure that our primitive earthly machines cannot measure.
    Stuff to look forward to. Worry about. Overanalyze. Thanks a lot for supplying my brain with dire side effects and possibilities.
    She closes the curtain and leaves me to get dressed. As I pull the T-shirt on, my brain replays everything she just said, everything I just experienced. Something inside me finally breaks and releases an avalanche of tears. I pull tissues from the box on the counter and try to piece myself together. Hands shaking, I hunt through my purse for my pills. My bag slips and goes into a nosedive, contents scattering everywhere. I crawl on the plastic lining the area and collect the items. Lipstick. Tampons. Loose change. Hair elastic. Pill bottle. Gum. Wallet. Tears blur my vision. I check to see if my money, license, and debit card are all still there. Everything seems intact. Normal. On my phone a string of texts wait to be answered, mostly from Rita.
    Dominick texted a few minutes ago:
    Are you okay? I’m waiting for clothes . Meet outside?
    My hands shake so out of control they don’t feel like mine. I text back:
    I’m fine. Just tired. Do you need a ride?
    He doesn’t respond. I wipe more tears with a tissue and pop a pill before leaving the bay.
    Everyone in my unit is allowed to leave, everyone except crazy lady. As I walk past her curtained area, I can’t help but peek inside. She’s alert and makes eye contact with me.
    “Mississippi?” she says and climbs out of bed.
    I pull back from the curtain.
    Her IV stand crashes to the ground. She gets a weird look in her eyes and starts patting at her paper gown and frantically searching the floor around her bed.
    “No!” she screams. I back farther away. Thankfully, the nurses arrive, pulling her back into bed. She flails, about to fight them, but keeps focused on me. I turn and run.
    I need to go home. The world is not safe. The world has gone mad.
    The moment I hit the waiting area, Mom runs and hugs me. Dad stands and waits.
    “Thank God,” she breathes into my hair. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah, just tired. I can’t believe they kept us so long.”
    “Let’s get out of here,” Dad mutters, looking everywhere else but at me. First sign. My heart drops lower in my chest.
    I look around at the crowd of people waiting for loved ones. Dominick’s mother and little brother are nowhere in sight.
    “Did you see Dominick?”
    “No, honey,” Mom says, taking a cursory look around.
    “Wait, I need to see if he needs a ride back to his car.” I pull my phone back out.
    Dominick has texted back:
    Probably. Be right there.
    “Doesn’t that boy have a family of his own?” Dad complains. Mom touches his shoulder. It’s a love warning. It means, “I know you are annoyed but you are crossing the line.”
    While we wait for him, I head to the front desk to pick up my clothes.
    “Last name?” the attendant asks.
    “Lucas. Alexandra Lucas.”
    “One moment.”
    She disappears behind another door and returns shortly with my clothes and shoes neatly folded in a plastic bag.
    “Thanks,” I say. As I turn to leave, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a door window. My curly hair is flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. I grab the hair elastic in my purse and pull my frizzy, brown hair into a quick bun. Just in time—Dominick appears around the corner.
    His face perks up when he sees me. He’s dressed up in his clothes from our date, the same dark jeans and striped button-down shirt. His shirt is wrinkled and must be misbuttoned since it doesn’t meet evenly at the bottom. It’s not fair that he looks sexier disheveled while I look like the bride of Frankenstein. He walks over and hugs me. The stress in my shoulders releases, but I push