Getting more help

Thursday morning arrives with HAVEN's chime and the smell of automated coffee. You shower quickly, the hot water a luxury you don't take for granted anymore, and head into LUXE.

"Good morning, Miss Chloe! I'm detecting an elevated heart rate. Big day ahead?"

"Something like that. Professional but not stiff. I'm seeing a doctor."

"Ooh, of course! Let me put together something polished but approachable—Doctor Visit Chic!"

The robotic arms begin their work. Undergarments first: a matching set in soft blush-pink microfiber—a seamless T-shirt bra and low-rise bikini panties, the fabric whisper-thin and barely there against your skin. The breast forms click into their cradle, adhesive applied with LUXE's usual precision, the cool silicone settling against your chest with that familiar weight that's stopped feeling foreign.

Next, a fitted charcoal wool-blend sheath dress with a subtle boat neckline, the fabric structured enough to hold its shape but with enough stretch to sit comfortably. Sheer nude tights glide up your legs. Black suede ankle boots with a two-inch block heel—practical for walking, polished enough for a medical office.

Makeup is kept deliberately understated: light foundation, a sweep of neutral taupe eyeshadow, thin eyeliner, one coat of mascara, a touch of blush, and a sheer pink-nude lipstick. Your hair gets washed, conditioned, and blow-dried into a sleek low chignon secured with a simple black claw clip.

"You look like someone who has her life together, Miss Chloe! Because you do!"

If only.

You bike to Petal & Thread, arriving at 8:50am. Margot's already at the counter with an envelope.

"Courier came at ten to nine," she says, sliding it across. "Four hundred eighty dollars. First week's pay, less taxes." She raises an eyebrow. "Don't spend it all in one place."

"I won't. Thank you, Margot. Seriously."

"Go. You've got somewhere to be."

You tuck the check into your crossbody bag, deposit it via mobile banking on your phone—thank God for that feature—and bike home to wait for Janelle.

She pulls up at 1:28pm in the Civic, wearing a cropped sage-green cardigan over a white tank top, her box braids loose over her shoulders today. She's brought snacks—trail mix, granola bars, two water bottles arranged in the cupholders like a care package.

"Hey," she says as you climb in. "You look good. Professional."

"Thanks. So do you."

The drive starts easy. Janelle talks about her AP English class, how her teacher assigned a comparative essay on Beloved and The Color Purple that she's actually excited about. She gestures with one hand while driving, explaining her thesis about trauma and voice.

"—and Ms. Delacroix said my draft was 'ambitious but unfocused,' which is basically teacher-speak for 'too smart for this assignment,' so I'm—"

She pauses. Glances at you.

"—skipping her fourth period to be here, actually."

The words land like a stone in water.

"Janelle." Your voice comes out harder than you intended. "Are you cutting class right now?"

"It's just one period—"

"No." You turn to face her fully. "Absolutely not. You are not screwing up your own life to chauffeur me around."

"Riley, it's fourth period. I have a ninety-six in that class—"

"That's not the point." Your heart is hammering. She's seventeen. She's cutting school for you. This is exactly the kind of thing that makes you the problem. "You need to go back after you drop me off. I'll Uber home. I have the money now."

Janelle's jaw tightens. She drives in silence for a full minute.

"Fine," she says finally. "But I'm checking that you got home safe."

"Deal."

The rest of the drive is quieter. Not cold—just careful. When she pulls up outside the Ridgewood Informed Consent Clinic—a low brick building with a discreet sign—she puts it in park.

"Good luck in there," she says. Her voice is soft. "I mean it."

"Thank you. For driving me. And for understanding."

She nods. Doesn't smile, exactly, but something in her face relaxes.

You step out, straighten your dress, and walk through the clinic doors. The waiting room is small and clean—beige walls, plastic chairs, a reception window. A woman with close-cropped natural hair and rectangular glasses looks up.

"Riley Bennett? Two-fifteen with Dr. Okafor?"

"That's me."

"Great. Fill these out." She slides a clipboard through the window. "Dr. Okafor will be ready in about ten minutes."

You take the clipboard, find a chair, and begin filling in the intake forms. Name. Date of birth. Assigned sex at birth. Gender identity. Pronouns.

She/her.

You write it in blue ink, steady and sure.