Chapter 2: The Doctor Will See You Now
The truck’s engine ticked as it cooled in the medical center parking lot. Chad killed the headlights, but the dull orange glow from the faltering streetlamp washed over them, making the cracked asphalt look like a bruised peach. The place felt less like a clinic and more like a warehouse for broken things.
He took a swig from his travel mug, the coffee bitter and burnt.
His passenger door opened before he could say anything.
K swung out, one long leg in skin-tight black leggings, then the other. The fabric didn’t just fit; it confessed, outlining every new curve, the wide sweep of her hips, the pronounced roundness of her backside. Her top was a deep V-neck that plunged without apology, the dark fabric straining over the full swell of her chest. She’d done something with her hair, too—sleeker, falling over her shoulders like a spill of honey.
She slammed the truck door and started walking toward the concrete bunker of a building, her boot heels clicking a sharp, deliberate rhythm on the asphalt. Her stride was different. Not the loose-limbed, covering-ground lope of a running back, but a narrower, sharper walk. Her hips moved. A lot. A deliberate, swaying cadence that was utterly foreign and completely hypnotic.
Chad watched her go, the coffee turning to acid in his throat. This wasn't the scared kid from last night, wrapped in his hoodie. This was a declaration. An armor made of spandex and attitude.
“You coming, Thor?” she called over her shoulder, not breaking stride. “Or you gonna chaperone the parking lot?”
He shoved his door open, the metal groaning. He fell into step beside her, his own gait feeling suddenly oafish and loud. “You dressed for a club or a doctor’s appointment?”
“I dressed for me,” she said, her eyes fixed ahead on the sliding glass doors. “This is the body I woke up in. They’re gonna scan it and poke it and draw its blood. Least I can do is make it look good.” She flicked a glance at him. “Problem?”
Yes. The word screamed in his head. The problem was the hot, unwelcome jolt he’d felt watching her climb out of his truck. The problem was the way his eyes kept snagging on the shift of her hips, a movement that should have been bizarre but was just… compelling. The problem was that his best friend was inside that body, and he was staring at the packaging.
“No problem,” he grunted. “Just making an observation.”
“Your observations suck. Your breath smells like burnt beans.”
The waiting room was a monument to stale hope. Flickering fluorescent tubes, worn aqua-colored chairs bolted together, a plastic ficus coated in dust. It smelled of antiseptic wipes and the ghost of cheap perfume. An elderly couple shared a National Geographic in silence. A young mother jiggled a fussy toddler.
K marched to the reception desk, her confidence a visible force field. “Kylie Thompson. Ten o’clock with Dr. Gupta.”
The receptionist, a woman with tired eyes and a stern bun, looked up, her gaze doing a quick, impersonal inventory of K’s outfit. “Fill these out. First time?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of a unique situation.”
“They’re all unique, honey,” the receptionist said, sliding a clipboard thick with forms across the laminate. “Insurance card?”
K faltered for the first time. “I, uh. I don’t think my insurance… covers this.”
Chad stepped up, his bulk suddenly useful. He placed a hand on the small of K’s back, a gesture that was half-support, half-steer toward the chairs. Her back was warm, the muscle under the thin fabric familiar yet not. “We’re paying cash,” he told the receptionist, his voice leaving no room for questions. He pulled out his wallet.
K stared at him as he handed over his debit card for the copay. “Chad—”
“Shut up. You can sell more drinks later to pay me back.” He guided her to two connected chairs.
They sat. The silence between them filled with the scratch of her pen and the distant, tinny voice of a daytime talk show on the wall-mounted TV. She hunched over the clipboard, her hair curtaining her face.
“What’s your family medical history?” she muttered, pen hovering.
“Your dad had high blood pressure. Your mom’s side has that thyroid thing,” Chad said automatically. He knew Kyle’s medical history better than his own. He watched her carefully print “Kylie” in the designated box, the letters looking deliberate and strange.
“Date of last menstrual cycle,” she read quietly. Her knuckles whitened on the pen. She left it blank.
After an eternity, a nurse in scrubs covered in cartoon llamas called, “Kylie?”
K stood, shoulders squaring. Chad rose with her.
“Just the patient for now,” the nurse said, smiling kindly.
K shot Chad a look—a flash of the old, pre-snap focus, tinged with new fear. “I got this.”
“Yeah. You do.”
He watched her follow the nurse down a beige corridor, the sway of her hips now seeming less defiant and more alone. He sank back into the plastic chair. The talk show audience roared with laughter at something he didn’t catch.
Thirty-seven minutes. He counted. He got coffee from a vending machine that tasted like hot aluminum. He resisted the urge to text her. He watched the elderly man help his wife to her feet, their movements a slow, synchronized dance of care.
Finally, the llama-nurse reappeared. “You can come back now. She’s asking for you.”
The room was cold. K was sitting on the edge of an examination table, a crinkly paper sheet beneath her. She’d traded her top for a faded blue gown, open at the back. It pooled around her waist, the straps digging into her shoulders. In the stark clinical light, she looked younger. The makeup, the outfit—it was all costume armor, and it had been stripped away. She just looked like a scared kid.
And she was crying. Silent, angry tears tracked through her mascara.
A woman in a white coat, Dr. Gupta according to her badge, stood by a computer, her expression professionally neutral. “You must be Chad,” she said. “Kylie has indicated you’re her primary support.”
“What’s wrong?” Chad’s voice was rough. He went to K’s side, not touching her, just looming close, a barrier between her and whatever had hurt her.
Dr. Gupta turned the monitor. It showed a series of ghostly grey images, swirling shapes. “These are Kylie’s latest blood panels and the contrast MRI we just completed. What I can tell you is that the biochemical agent she ingested has triggered a total, systemic metamorphosis. It has rewritten her endocrine system, altered her skeletal structure to a significant degree, and caused complete gynecomastia and genital restructuring. The cellular activity is… unprecedented, but it is also stable.”
“English, doc,” Chad said, though the terms ‘genital restructuring’ echoed in his skull like a bell.
“It’s permanent,” K said, her voice hollow, staring at her hands in her lap. “There’s no ‘switching back.’ No antidote. The changes are molecular. I’m not… sick. This is just me now. Like frying an egg. Can’t unfry it.”
Dr. Gupta nodded slowly. “That’s a crude but not inaccurate analogy. Your body isn’t fighting the change. It has fully integrated it. You are, for all biological and medical purposes, female. And healthy.”
The word ‘healthy’ seemed to hang in the sterile air, a cruel joke.
“So what happens now?” Chad asked.
“Now, Kylie begins living her life. We discuss hormone maintenance—her body is producing estrogen naturally now, but levels will need monitoring. We discuss options for fertility preservation, if that’s a future consideration. We discuss therapy, to help with psychosocial adjustment.” Dr. Gupta’s gaze was direct, compassionate but unflinching. “The person who walked into that club three months ago no longer exists. I’m sorry. The task now is to build a life for the person who is here.”
K let out a wet, shuddering breath. “I told you it was a stupid fucking hail mary.”
Chad’s hand found her shoulder. The skin was cool under his palm. He squeezed. “You caught the ball, K. It just turned into a different sport.”
She leaned into his touch, just slightly. The paper on the table crinkled.
Dr. Gupta gave them a moment before speaking again. “There are practicalities. Legal documentation. Your driver’s license, social security. That will require a formal diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria and a letter from a mental health professional, which given the circumstances, I am prepared to facilitate. It’s a bureaucratic path, but a necessary one.”
K nodded, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand, smearing the black streaks. “Okay. Okay, fine. What’s next?”
“Next, you get dressed. I’ll send in information for a therapist I recommend, and a script for baseline bloodwork in six weeks.” Dr. Gupta offered a small, reassuring smile. “You have excellent support. That will make all the difference.”
Dr. Gupta moved to a small desk in the corner, her chair squeaking in the quiet room. She typed briefly, the keyboard clicks sharp and final. A printer hummed to life, spitting out a single slip of pale green paper.
“This is for a standard combined oral contraceptive,” she said, turning back to them. She held the prescription out to K, who took it with numb fingers. “Your hormone levels are self-regulating, but this will provide more control over your cycle. It will mitigate some of the… physical symptoms you described. The mood swings. The cramping.”
K stared at the cryptic writing on the paper, her name printed neatly at the top. “Right.”
The doctor’s gaze shifted briefly to Chad, who stood like a sentinel beside the table, then back to K. Her tone remained perfectly clinical, devoid of judgment. “Take it once a day. And use condoms, always. But this is for the other percentage points. Bodies are complex. New attractions, new curiosities… they can emerge unexpectedly during times of profound change.” She paused, letting the words settle in the cold air. “Consider it a practical measure. Just in case you two get curious.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Chad felt the floor tilt. His vision tunneled, the clinical details of the room—the eye chart, the sink, the sharps container—blurring into a white smear. Curious. The word detonated in the center of his brain, scattering every coherent thought. It connected directly to the memory of the slit of light through her door, the hypnotic sway of her hips in the parking lot, the hot, unwelcome jolt low in his gut. His face burned.
K’s reaction was faster, sharper. A harsh, choked sound escaped her—not a laugh, not a sob, but something raw in between. She crumpled the prescription slightly in her fist, her knuckles pressing white against the green paper. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a hell of an assumption, doc.”
“It’s not an assumption. It’s a documented pattern in cases of deep, intimate bonding undergoing severe stress.” Dr. Gupta’s voice was gentle but relentless. “The brain seeks familiar comfort. The lines can blur. I’ve seen it before. It’s chemistry, not morality. I’m your physician, not your priest. My job is to keep you physically safe.”
“We’re not—that’s not us,” Chad heard himself say, the words thick and stupid in his mouth. He couldn’t look at K.
“Good,” Dr. Gupta said simply, as if filing away a datum. “Then the prescription is merely for cycle regulation. No harm done.” She stood, signaling the end of the consultation. “Get dressed, Kylie. The pharmacist downstairs can fill this immediately if you wish.”
She left, the door clicking shut with a soft, definitive sound.
The hum of the overhead lights seemed to grow louder, a high-pitched buzz in the dead air.
K didn’t move. She stared at the crushed prescription in her hand. Her shoulders were rigid, but a fine tremor ran through her. Chad watched the tremor, tracked its path down the line of her bare back where the gown gaped.
He finally forced himself to speak, his voice gravelly. “She’s out of her mind.”
“Is she?” K whispered. She didn’t turn around.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She unfolded the paper, smoothing it slowly on her thigh. The crinkling sound was absurdly loud. “It means you watched me. Last night. You didn’t look away.” She turned her head, just enough to see him from the corner of her eye. Her mascara was a wreck, but her gaze was clear and terrifyingly direct. “I felt you there. Before the floorboard creaked. You were just… standing there.”
Chad had no air. No defense. The truth was a solid, shameful weight in his chest.
“So maybe she’s not out of her mind,” K said, the words dropping between them like stones. She slid off the table, the paper gown rustling, and turned to face him fully. The vulnerable patient was gone, replaced by something harder, challenging. She held his stare, the green prescription slip dangling from her fingers. “Maybe she’s just the first person to say the quiet part out loud.”
The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped insect above them. K held his gaze for a second longer, the challenge in her eyes brittle and daring him to confirm it. Then she turned her back, letting the paper gown fall to the floor.
She dressed with sharp, efficient movements, yanking the leggings up over her hips, pulling the tight top over her head. Each motion was a dismissal of the moment, a retreat into action. Chad stared at a poster detailing the food pyramid, his mind a white noise of static and that one word. Curious.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” K said, her voice flat. She snatched the prescription and the therapist referral from the counter, shoving them into her small purse.
The walk back through the beige corridor felt longer. The receptionist’s tired eyes followed them out. The sliding doors parted, and the dull grey daylight hit them, the antiseptic chill replaced by the damp, oily smell of the parking lot.
Chad’s truck waited where they left it, a hulk of familiar red metal. He hit the fob, the locks clunking open. K wrenched the passenger door open and climbed in, slamming it shut. He got behind the wheel but didn’t start the engine. The silence in the cab was a physical thing, pressurized and strained.
He watched her from the corner of his eye. She was looking straight ahead, her profile sharp against the window. She had wiped most of the mascara streaks away, but a faint grey smudge remained under one eye. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, around the purse holding the proof of her new, permanent life.
The doctor’s clinical voice echoed. The person who walked into that club no longer exists. Chad’s fingers tightened on the key, not turning it. A more immediate, practical horror dawned on him, cutting through the personal confusion. It was a problem he could almost grasp. A logistical nightmare.
“K,” he said, his voice unnaturally quiet in the still cab.
“What.”
He turned to look at her fully. She didn’t meet his eye. He studied the familiar curve of her jaw, now softer, and the unfamiliar gloss on her lips. The question felt like lifting a boulder.
“How are you gonna break this to your parents, bro?”
She flinched. A full-body tremor, quickly suppressed. Her clasped hands twisted, the knuckles popping. She let out a slow, controlled breath that fogged the window glass. “Jesus, Chad. Way to just… land the plane right on the fucking landmine.”
“It’s the next play,” he said, stubborn, practical. “They’re expecting you for Sunday dinner in, what, two weeks? For your mom’s meatloaf. Your dad’s gonna want to watch the game with us. They FaceTime every Tuesday.”
“I know!” The words burst out of her, too loud in the confined space. She finally turned, her eyes wide with a fresh panic that dwarfed the anger from the exam room. “I know. Do you think I don’t know? I’ve been… I’ve been putting their calls on silent. Telling them I’m busy with work. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey Mom, the random pill I took for kicks worked great. Pass the peas?’”
“They love you,” Chad said, but it sounded weak.
“They loved Kyle!” she shot back, her voice cracking. “They loved their all-state linebacker son. What are they gonna love about this?” She gestured violently at herself, at the body that filled the clothes that confused him. “My dad still calls you ‘the good influence.’ How’s that for a punchline?”
Chad thought of Frank Thompson, a bear of a man who’d taught them both how to properly tape their ankles in this very truck’s cab a lifetime ago. He thought of Linda, who always cut the crusts off Kyle’s sandwiches well into high school, just how he liked it. The image of K—Kylie—walking into their split-level ranch house was impossible to conjure. It would shatter something.
“You can’t not tell them,” he said.
“I know that, you gigantic asshole!” She slumped back against the seat, the fight draining again, leaving pure exhaustion. “I just… I need a minute. Before the next world ends.”
She fumbled in her purse, pulling out the crumpled green prescription. She stared at it as if it were a map to a minefield. “I have to go to the pharmacy. It’s downstairs.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not coming in.”
“Okay.”
She looked at him, searching for mockery or argument. He just nodded, his face a mask of strained neutrality. The unspoken thing—the ‘curious’ thing—hung between them, but this was bigger. This was family.
She got out, leaving the door open for a second, letting in the sound of a distant siren. She walked toward the building’s side entrance, her stride less defiant now, just purposeful. He watched her go, the tight clothing that had seemed so aggressive now just looked like a shield.
He started the truck, just for the heat. The engine’s rumble was a comfort. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his own mom’s contact. He put it down.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. He saw her through the pharmacy’s window, standing in line behind an old man with a cane. She was just a blonde woman in leggings, picking up a prescription. No one looked twice.
When she returned, she carried a small white bag. She got in, placed it carefully at her feet, and buckled her seatbelt. “Let’s go.”
He pulled out of the lot, navigating toward the interstate. The city blurred past, a stream of unremarkable storefronts and traffic.
“They gave me a little pink starter pack,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection. She stared out the window. “First month free. How considerate.”
Chad gripped the wheel at ten and two. The silence stretched, but it had changed. The shock in the room had solidified into a cold, heavy reality in the passenger seat. It had weight and paperwork.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said finally, the words leaving his mouth before he knew he’d thought them.
“We,” she repeated, not a question.
“Yeah. We.” He signaled, changing lanes. “We always have.”
She didn’t thank him. She just leaned her head against the cool glass, watching the world pass by. After a few miles, she spoke, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it over the road noise.
“I’m scared, Thor.”
He didn’t have any more words. He just reached across the center console, his big hand enveloping her smaller, colder one where it lay on the seat. He gave it one firm, solid squeeze—the same squeeze he’d give before a fourth-down stand. A signal. A promise.
She turned her hand over and linked her fingers with his, holding on tight. They drove the rest of the way home like that, the white pharmacy bag on the floor between them.