The Heartbeat Law

       There are five of us in the back of the van. I’m between Krystal and Connor, the amnio injection needle in my pocket. I’m not a doctor. Doctors have helped us: trained us, stolen for us, broken other laws for us. None were willing to get into the van.

       I keep checking my cargo pants to make sure the needle’s still in my pocket, its cap still on tight. Krystal puts her hand over mine. Glove on glove. She doesn’t speak, but it’s as if her eyes are saying chill, girl, you got this. On my other side, Connor’s knee is joggling, the heel of his boot tapping the floor. The van makes a hard turn. We lean together. We’re getting close.

       At first I thought they gave me the needle because I wasn’t strong enough for restraint and not experienced enough for the security system. Then they told me I was the only one who didn’t flinch or look away during the injection training video. It wasn’t that I was particularly brave. I had volunteered to help any way I could and I’d meant it. That was weeks ago and I’ve practiced hundreds of injections since then.

       Inside my needle is a capsule of amniotic fluid. Inside the fluid is something that will have a heartbeat soon. As long as I hit the right spot, as long as I choose a place free from acid and bile. Somewhere soft and dark so it can grow. So it can teach a lesson.

       I clutch my knees, trying not to check for the needle again. It’s there, its cap is still on. I focus on my breathing. I focus on Connor’s bouncing knee. Connor’s sister died in a back alley. Krystal comes from a family of too many babies and not enough food. Our driver had the procedure clean and safe on the coast, and was horrified when she moved here. Those are the only stories I know, but everyone in the van has a story. You can see it in their eyes, you can imagine their jaws set under their ski masks and bandanas.

       The van is stopping. Connor is out first. My knees are soft, but I follow. Krystal’s just behind. Connor disables the security system, just like we’ve practiced. He turns back to look at us. Even under the mask, we can tell he’s grinning, but shocked. It’s working! Can you believe this?

       Go, Krystal motions. Keep moving. The senator’s house is dark and we don’t turn on lights. I watch my feet through the foyer, up the wide stairs, down the hardwood hall. My legs are like elastic and I’m worried that I’ll trip and ruin everything, but I keep up.

       He’s still asleep when Connor opens his bedroom door. The struggle is quick and nearly silent. Tape is pressed over his mouth. There were five of us in the back of the van, and now four hold him down. Krystal flips back his duvet and pins his left ankle. I step up.

       I switch on my headlamp, the only light we have, and I blink fast so my pupils will adjust quickly. I’ve practiced on rubber dummies until my wrist ached. I’ve practiced twice on anesthetized human volunteers with saline. This is the first time I’ve seen eyes. The senator is panicking. His eyes are wide above the duct tape. His face is covered in panic-sweat, shining in the jerky low beam of my headlamp.

       No one has asked me my reason for being here, but I know everyone in the van assumes  my willingness to wield the syringe meant I’d been through something bad. I must have had an illegal operation and gotten lucky. Or I’d risked smuggled Plan B. Or someone I loved had died.

       My true story was a false alarm. I thought I was pregnant and it turned out I wasn’t. I could imagine Connor and Krystal thinking that was a pale imitation of what they’d lived. But I remembered the feeling of helplessness like a rope over my eyes: knowing I wouldn’t have a choice about the next months or the next years, for the rest of my life. That wasn’t a pale imitation of anything. It was all of me, it was my biggest fear, my biggest motivation. It was worth unblinking, worth picking up a weapon.

       I pull up the senator’s t-shirt and feel my entry point with the tip of my fingers, above intestinal lumps, below the cusp of his rib. I uncap the needle with one sure pull, just like they showed me. I bite the cap to have both hands free. He sees the needle and he struggles hard. My friends lean down on his limbs, fighting to keep him prone on the mattress. Beneath his tape, he makes a long pull of sound: a thick whine. He’s trying to say no, please don’t, please.

       This injection will poison him. Probably not fatally, though you never know. But if he takes it out, he’s a hypocrite. Because by the time he can have it removed, it will have a heartbeat.

       I have been brave before in my life, I will be brave now. I raise the needle. One more look at him. He’s terrified and I think: now you know how it feels, to have no choice in what happens next. The needle goes in deep when I drop my hand, exactly where I aimed.

Andrea lives in the Seattle area and in addition to writing fiction and creative non-fiction, she works as a researcher in the aviation industry. She loves coffee and theater and overcast days of the Pacific Northwest. Her stories have appeared in Blue Fifth Review, Shooter Literary Magazine, and Every Day Fiction.