Choice

	“Names of all passengers in the vehicle?” Fetal Protection Officer Masterson tapped a pen against her clipboard.
	Angelica Wright gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. “My husband, Jason Wright, and Adrian, our child.”
	“Mrs. Wright, I’ll need your fertility status report.”
	Angelica locked eyes with her husband. “Honey, please pass me my purse.” Jason gritted his teeth and tossed the frayed leather bag into her lap. White-faced, Angelica fumbled in the side pocket, fished out a laminated card, and surrendered it.
	Masterson squinted at the document. “This is last month’s report.”
	“It doesn’t expire until midnight. I’m getting tested this afternoon.” Angelica’s voice quavered. “We’ve been low on cash, and today is payday.”
	“Mrs. Wright, surely you are aware that all testing clinics are downtown. Why are you heading the opposite direction?”
	“We’re going to my sister’s house first,” she stammered.
	“Your reason for travel?”
	“It’s her birthday.”
	“Does she live out of state?”
	Jason clenched his fist and speared the officer with his gaze. “My sister-in-law’s house is fifteen minutes across the state line. If you will let us be on our way, we’ll be back in plenty of time for my wife’s pregnancy test.”
	Masterson ignored him and peered into the back seat. “How old are you, Adrian?”
	Swallowing hard, Angelica cut in. “Our child is 13. Now please return my card. We’re going to be late.”
	The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Adrian, what is your birth gender?”
	“Leave our child alone,” Jason hissed. “You have no right to ask such personal questions.”
	Masterson smirked. “Actually, as a fetal protection officer, I do.”
	Adrian shrank back into an oversized hoodie. “Female,” she whispered.
	Masterson’s pen resumed its steady tap dance across the clipboard. “You’re a female of childbearing age, Adrian. I’ll need your fertility status report as well.”
	“I don’t have it with me,” she mumbled.
	Masterson’s pen stilled. “Step out of the car, Miss Wright.”
	“Don’t move, Adrian.” Jason forced a smile. “Officer, we’ll drive home and get the paperwork for you.”
	“I don’t think so. Transporting a fertile female across state lines without documentation of nonpregnancy is a felony. I’m taking your daughter into protective custody. And you, Mrs. Wright, are under arrest.”
	When Masterson yanked the rear door open, Jason’s right hand snaked toward the revolver in his ankle holster. Sensing movement, the officer pivoted toward the front.
	Angelica gulped air and grabbed for the gear shift.
	Before either hand reached its target, Adrian whipped a stun gun from her pocket. She leveled it at the fetal protection officer and squeezed the trigger with a sob.

Elizabeth Spencer Spragins is a fiber artist, writer, and poet who taught in North Carolina community colleges for more than a decade before returning to her home state of Virginia. Her work has appeared in more than 80 journals and anthologies in 11 countries. She is the author of three original poetry collections: “Waltzing with Water” and “With No Bridle for the Breeze” (Shanti Arts Publishing) and “The Language of Bones” (Kelsay Books). www.elizabethspencerspragins.wordpress.com.