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(Make sure you read Part One before you read more of the story.)

The truth is, I took my haz-suit off after school. It was stupid, a dare, one that will haunt me forever now.

Since the pregnancy epidemic began, all educational institutions became segregated. Not blacks and whites segregated like my nan lived through. This was boys and girls segregated. Don’t even start me on the issue with transgender and intersex people. Fine, I’ll say it. They get blackbagged.

My nan would blackbag me if she knew that I was growing a tiny human inside of me. Hopeful it was just one. With pregnancy being contagious, I could be pregnant four times over for all I knew.

The image of my dead, four-time over pregnant school mate flashed in my mind. I didn’t see it when it happened; the news broadcasted it all over the place as a grand warning and reminder for all females to wear their haz-suits at all times.

Recalling the images made me stop and hunch over. I didn’t want to puke in my haz-suit, but my turning stomach was suggesting otherwise. Oh gods, I thought, I hope this isn’t morning sickness.

A few long, calming breathes later and no puking drove me to a decision. I needed to find out if I was actually pregnant, how far along I was, and how many babies were growing inside of me.

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