This morning the receptionist ushers me into the Magnolia Room, reserved for those receiving a “different type” of mammogram, although I can discern no obvious difference from the Dogwood Room, where I waited last week for the usual sort, the one about which my friends and I joke and pretend we schedule as casually as a teeth-cleaning. Today I’m not smiling, and neither are the other women who sit in the low lighting, all of us swaddled in plush white robes, flipping through articles headlined “How to Lose Ten Pounds Overnight,” as if we cared — although I note the title could be a great mastectomy joke if I should happen to need one. My technician appears, gestures me into the hall, says, “You’re fine,” as the door swings closed, two words neatly dividing my morning from that of the women still waiting to hear. We lean against the wall, her in blue scrubs, me in my white robe, the little metal bead still stuck to my right nipple in case we had to do it again. She’s explaining about dense breast tissue and how the radiologist needed a clearer view, but I am already back in the cubicle, peeling the bead off, flicking it into the trash can, glancing fondly at my good right breast, appreciating the jaunty air it wears this morning, the way the nipple perks up, scenting escape, the obliging way it settles into the pocket of my bra, and then I’m crossing the room, shoving the robe deep into the hamper, nodding to the one woman still waiting to learn which direction her life will take. “I hope your news is good,” I say, then step into the benediction of fluorescent lights, the beckoning sign that tells me I am free to exit into the unremarkable morning with its unremarkable sunlight splashing like a waterfall over the green leaves of the heart-stopping unremarkable trees.