I’m a womb, and I work full time. Cycles, hormones, monthly renovations—I keep the place running whether anything moves in or not. That’s my whole deal.

What isn’t my deal? The constant commentary. The laws, opinions, paperwork, and questions from people who’ve never met me but swear they know what I should be doing. Everyone’s got a clipboard.

And wherever my host goes, I go too—across state lines, into clinics, through waiting rooms. A traveling organ. A disputed stowaway. Just trying to do my job while the world insists on supervising.