The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and lavender.

A nurse in blue scrubs greeted us.

“Mr. Whitmore?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“We have the private room ready for you.”

She led us down a quiet hallway to a small office.

A silver tray sat on the counter, holding sterile swabs and plastic tubes.

The nurse put on blue latex gloves.

“Who would like to go first?” she asked with a warm smile.

“I’ll go,” Noah said, stepping forward bravely.

I watched as the nurse gently rubbed the cotton swab against the inside of his cheek.

She sealed the swab in a labeled vial.

Next was Lila, who whimpered slightly but let the nurse complete the test.

Finally, the nurse turned to me.

I sat in the chair and opened my mouth.

The rough cotton scraped against my cheek.

It was a simple, clinical act.

Yet this small piece of cotton held the key to my entire life.

“We will have the certified results in forty-eight hours,” the nurse said, labeling my vial.

“Thank you,” I said, standing up.

Maren helped the children put their coats back on.