She’s perched at the study table, pink blouse clinging like it’s praying for mercy, every breath testing the buttons. Books tower behind her, but all eyes are on the impossible curve spilling over the edge.
The mic slips in, hushed: “How heavy are they?”
A shy grin flickers, cheeks pink. “Each one’s over twenty pounds… feels like two bowling balls glued to my chest. I waddle more than walk.”
The laugh that escapes is soft, startled, like she didn’t expect to be funny; her shoulders shake, the fabric trembles, and the whole shelf of her chest bounces in slow, heavy waves.
The reporter leans closer. “Growing still?”
She nods, eyes wide. “Yep. Doctor says it’s not done yet.”