An unassuming doorway lies at the top of Haight Street. I reach the last step and ring the bell. I'm jumpy and nervous. The voice on the intercom asks what I want and after the little game of trading code words, it buzzes me in.
I step in and climb the stairs. The walls gleam from a fresh coat of white paint. Bowls of candy-colored condoms, sitting on the newel post, catch my eyes. I pocket several, knowing they'll get put to use in our household of single women.
At the top of the stairs is the waiting room once the dining room of this flat-turned-health clinic. I step inside and find a spot to sit. I try to relax and take deep breaths, but the circumstances leading me here are hard to forget.