Sunlight stretched over the horizon, dragging the east coast humidity sluggishly in its wake. Mina tried to ignore the sweat forming on her forehead and under her boobs. It was too early for this. She dabbed at her upper lip, peering down the line that wrapped around the cement-block building and beyond. It had barely moved since Mina joined it, fifteen minutes ago.

Like most of the people here, Mina was used to the long wait, but the humidity and early hour was making it particularly difficult. The whole queue seemed to vibrate with silent impatience. Only a few, hushed voices could be heard coming from somewhere around the front of the building.

Mina watched the woman directly in front of her type rapidly on her cell phone, her long nails emphasizing her work with rhythmic clicking. She was tall, thin, and dressed in an expensive-looking suit and sneakers. A pair of stilettos poked out of her designer handbag. She looked powerful, and had an authoritative air Mina knew she’d never have working as a bookkeeper. Lot of good that did her, though. Designer bag or no, they were both stuck suffering in the sticky, gray morning. At least Mina got to wear shorts.

The line moved lazily forward and Mina wrestled her mass of humidity-induced curls into a topknot. When she finally turned the corner, she saw the cause of the whispering.

The storefront of A Woman’s Place: Health, Wellness, and Other Womanly Goods was plastered with bright, yellow broadsides. A banner hanging over the entrance declared, “GOING OUT OF BUSINESS” while the windows advertised “FINAL SALE” and “80% OFF EVERYTHING” like it was something to be celebrated.

“No…” Mina’s stomach sank. This was already the only clinic within forty miles. How much further would she be forced to travel for even the most basic of needs?

She followed the forward movement of the line, her head reeling. A gust of air-conditioning hit her as the automatic doors opened, bringing Mina to her senses and freezing her sweat-coated body. She shivered.

The scene before her was apocalyptic. People scoured the near-empty shelves for their government-regulated “womanly goods”. Pink-vested staff scurried from aisle to aisle, doing their best to help frantic and frustrated customers. Mina picked up small pieces of their conversations as she navigated her way to the back of the store.

One woman was asking why her pre-natal vitamins were no longer available over the counter, they’re vitamins for Christ’s sake; while a mother ensured her son that everything would be fine, that she’d find a way to get his hormone treatments, she promised; and somewhere, a nervous voice asked for a dose of misoprostol and the additional dose of mifepristone Mina knew would accompany it.

Among the bold-font markdowns were posters warning against archaic methods of birth control – a red X over images of lemons, vinegar, and baking soda.

The air hummed with the nervous energy of people running out of options.

Mina approached the pharmacy counter and gave her name and birthday. The pharmacist looked at the screen, brows furrowed, and Mina knew what was coming.

“Insurance should cover this,” she said. “Your gynecologist prescribed oral contraceptives for medical reasons.”

Mina gave a timid smile. “It’s for irregular cycles,” she said. A pre-existing condition. No coverage.

The pharmacist’s brows furrowed more deeply, clearly frustrated, but continued her work. She asked for Mina’s address and handed her a printout map with her prescription. “There’s one other clinic in the state,” the pharmacist said, circling a spot on the map. “But it’s on the opposite side of the state. I can forward your script there or to the one over state lines.” She circled another spot on the map.

Either location would mean nearly a four-hour commute one way from her house in Linville.

“Out of state,” Mina said. At least then she’d have an excuse to leave this godforsaken place.

With fifty dollars less in her bank account, Mina turned back to the chaos of the store. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the familiar crest of Linville Middle School hanging from a young girl’s school bag. The girl stood beside her father as he stared at a shelf of tampons in confusion. Mina wondered if they knew how far they would soon need to drive for a box of tampons and felt a sudden anger.

Some would blame it on her hormones, but Mina knew better. She was angry that she could remember a time when things were better, and even angrier that this young girl wouldn’t. Mina took a breath, focusing on the future that stood before her, red-eared and embarrassed with her father.

“Need help?” she asked. “You look new to this world.”

The young girl flushed, horrified, but her father looked relieved.

“Please,” he said.

Mina selected a few boxes from the shelf and handed them to the girl’s father, along with the pharmacist’s map. “If this is too far,” Mina tapped the printout, “check the public library. The Linville Women’s Coalition holds feminine hygiene drives at the libraries.”

She gave the Linville key chain on the girl’s bag a gentle tug in response to the pair’s confused looks. Then, with an encouraging smile, she continued down the aisle.

Another large banner hanging over the exit declared, “EVERYTHING MUST GO!”

Five years ago, a woman’s right to choose was given to the states. In a few days, the shelves of A Woman’s Place would be completely empty. No Monistat, no tampons, no hormonal treatments or free breast exams.

Everything must go, Mina thought as she returned to the oppressive world beyond A Woman’s Place. There isn’t much left to take.