ASparkofLightisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentsaretheproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualevents,locales,

orpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

Copyright©2018byJodiPicoult

Allrightsreserved.

PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyBallantineBooks,animprintofRandomHouse,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.

BALLANTINEandtheHOUSEcolophonareregisteredtrademarksofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData

Names:Picoult,Jodi,author.

Title:ASparkofLight:ANovel/JodiPicoult.

Description:Firstedition.|NewYork:BallantineBooks,2018.

Identifiers:LCCN2018018966|ISBN9780345544988(hardcover:acid-freepaper)|ISBN9780345544995(ebook)

Subjects:LCSH:FICTION/ContemporaryWomen.|FICTION/Literary.|FICTION/Sagas.GSAFD:Suspensefiction.

Classification:LCCPS3566.I372L432018(print)|LCCPS3566.I372(ebook)|DDC813/.54—dc23LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2018018966

HardcoverISBN 9780345544988

InternationaleditionISBN 9781984817310

EbookISBN 9780345544995

randomhousebooks.com

BookdesignbySusanTurner,adaptedforebook

Coverdesign:LauraKlynstra

v5.3.2

ep

Contents

Cover

TitlePage

Copyright

Epigraph

Fivep.m.

Fourp.m.

Threep.m.

Twop.m.

Onep.m.

Noon

Elevena.m.

Tena.m.

Ninea.m.

Eighta.m.

Epilogue

Author’sNote

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

ByJodiPicoult

AbouttheAuthor

Thequestionisnotwhetherwewillbeextremists,butwhatkindofextremistswewillbe.Willwebeextremistsforhate

orforlove?

—REVERENDDR.MARTINLUTHERKING,JR.

T

Fivep.m.

HE CENTER SQUATTED ON THE CORNER OF JUNIPER AND MONTFORT

behindawrought-irongate,likeanoldbulldogusedtoguardingitsterritory. At one point, there had beenmany like it inMississippi—nondescript,unassumingbuildingswhereserviceswereprovidedandneeds were met. Then came the restrictions that were designed tomake these places go away: the halls had to be wide enough toaccommodate two passing gurneys; any clinic where that wasn’t thecase had to shut down or spend thousands on reconstruction. Thedoctors had to have admitting privileges at local hospitals—eventhoughmostwerefromoutofstateandcouldn’tsecurethem—ortheclinicswheretheypracticedriskedclosing,too.Onebyonetheclinicsshutteredtheirwindowsandboardeduptheirdoors.Now,theCenterwasaunicorn—asmallrectangleofastructurepainteda fluorescent,flagrantorange,likeaflagtothosewhohadtraveledhundredsofmilesto find it. Itwas thecolorofsafety; thecolorofwarning. It said:I’mhereifyouneedme.Itsaid,Dowhatyouwanttome;I’mnotgoing.

TheCenterhadsufferedscarsfromthecutsofpoliticiansandthebarbsofprotesters.Ithadlickeditswoundsandhealed.AtonepointithadbeencalledtheCenter forWomenandReproductiveHealth.Buttherewerethosewhobelievedifyoudonotnameathing,itceasestoexist, and so its title was amputated, like a war injury. But still, itsurvived. First it became the Center forWomen. And then, just: theCenter.

Thelabelfit.TheCenterwasthecalminthemiddleofastormofideology. Itwas the sunof a universe ofwomenwhohad runout oftimeandhadrunoutofchoices,whoneededabeacontolookupto.

And like other things that shine so hot, it had amagnetic pull.Those inneed found it the lodestone for theirnavigation.Thosewhodespiseditcouldnotlookaway.

—

TODAY,WRENMCELROYTHOUGHT,WASnotagooddaytodie.Sheknew

thatotherfifteen-year-oldgirlsromanticizedtheideaofdyingforlove,butWrenhadreadRomeoandJulietlastyearineighth-gradeEnglishanddidn’tseethemagicinwakingupinacryptbesideyourboyfriend,andthenplunginghisdaggerintoyourownribs.AndTwilight—forgetit.Shehadlistenedtoteacherspaintthestoriesofheroeswhosetragicdeaths somehow enlarged their lives rather than shrinking them.WhenWrenwassix,hergrandmotherhaddiedinhersleep.Strangershadsaidoverandoverthatdyinginyoursleepwasablessing,butasshe stared at her nana, waxen white in the open coffin, she didn’tunderstandwhyitwasagift.Whatifhergrandmotherhadgonetobedthenightbeforethinking,Inthemorning,I’llwaterthatorchid.Inthemorning,I’llreadtherestofthatnovel.I’llcallmyson.Somuchleftunfinished.No,therewasjustnowaydyingcouldbespunintoagoodthing.

HergrandmotherwastheonlydeadpersonWrenhadeverseen,untiltwohoursago.Now,shecouldtellyouwhatdyinglookedlike,asopposed to just dead. One minute, Olive had been there, staring sofierceatWren—asifshecouldholdontotheworldifhereyesstayedopen—and then, in a beat, those eyes stopped being windows andbecamemirrors,andWrensawonlyareflectionofherownpanic.

Shedidn’twant to lookatOliveanymore,but shedid.Thedeadwoman was lying down like she was taking a nap, a couch cushionunderherhead.Olive’sshirtwassoakedwithblood,buthadriddenupontheside,revealingherribsandwaist.Herskinwaspaleontopandthen lavender,witha thin lineofdeepvioletwhereherbackmet thefloor.WrenrealizedthatwasbecauseOlive’sbloodwassettlinginside,justtwohoursaftershe’dpassed.Forasecond,Wrenthoughtshewasgoingtothrowup.

Shedidn’twanttodielikeOlive,either.

Which,giventhecircumstances,madeWrenahorribleperson.

The odds were highly unlikely, but if Wren had to choose, shewould die in a black hole. It would be instant and it would be epic.Like,literally,you’dberippedapartattheatomiclevel.You’dbecomestardust.

Wren’s father had taught her that. He bought her her firsttelescope,whenshewas five.Hewasthereasonshewantedtobeanastronaut when she was little, and an astrophysicist as soon as she

learnedwhatonewas.Hehimselfhadhaddreamsofcommandingaspaceshuttlethatexploredeverycorneroftheuniverseuntilhegotagirlpregnant.Insteadofgoingtogradschool,hehadmarriedWren’smomandbecomeacopand thenadetectiveandhadexploredeverycornerofJackson,Mississippi,instead.HetoldWrenthatworkingforNASAwasthebestthingthatneverhappenedtohim.

When theyweredrivingback fromhergrandmother’s funeral, ithad snowed. Wren—a child who’d never seen weather like that inMississippi before—had been terrified by the way the world swirled,unmoored. Her father had started talking to her:Mission SpecialistMcElroy, activate the thrusters. When she wouldn’t stop crying, hebegan punching random buttons: the air-conditioning, the four-wayflashers, thecruisecontrol.They litupredandblue likeacommandcenteratMissionControl.MissonSpecialistMcElroy,herfathersaid,prepare for hyperspace. Then he flicked on his brights, so that thesnowbecameatunnelofspeedingstars,andWrenwassoamazedsheforgottobescared.

Shewishedshecouldflickaswitchnow,andtravelbackintime.

Shewishedshehadtoldherdadshewascominghere.

Shewishedshehadlethimtalkheroutofit.

Shewishedshehadn’taskedheraunttobringher.

Aunt Bexmight even now be lying in a morgue, like Olive, herbodybecomingarainbow.AnditwasallWren’sfault.

You,saidthemanwithagun,hisvoicedraggingWrenbacktothehereandnow.Hehadaname,butshedidn’twanttoeventhinkofit.Itmadehimhumanandhewasn’thuman;hewasamonster.Whileshe’dbeenlostinthought,he’dcometostandinfrontofher.Now,hejerkedthepistolather.Getup.

Theothersheld theirbreathwithher.Theyhad, in thepast fewhours,becomeasingleorganism.Wren’sthoughtsmovedinandoutoftheotherwomen’sminds.Herfearstankontheirskin.

Blood still bloomed from the bandage the man had wrappedaroundhishand.Itwasthetiniestoftriumphs.ItwasthereasonWrencouldstandup,eventhoughherlegswerejelly.

Sheshouldn’thavecomehere.

Sheshouldhavestayedalittlegirl.

Becausenowshemightnotlivetobecomeanythingelse.

Wrenheard thehammerclickandclosedhereyes.All shecouldpicturewasherfather’sface—theblue-jeaneyes,thegentlebendofhissmile—ashelookedupatthenightsky.

—

WHENGEORGEGODDARDWAS FIVE years old, hismama tried to set hisdaddyonfire.His fatherhadbeenpassedoutonthecouchwhenhismotherpouredthelighterfluidoverhisdirtylaundry,litamatch,anddumped the flaming bin on top of him. The big man reared up,screaming,battingat the flameswithhishamhands.George’smamastood a distance away with a glass of water. Mabel, his daddyscreamed.Mabel!Buthismamacalmlydrankeverylastdrop,sparingnone to extinguish the flames.When George’s father ran out of thehousetorollinthedirtlikeahog,hismamaturnedtohim.Letthatbealessontoyou,shesaid.

Hehadnotwantedtogrowuplikehisdaddy,butinthewaythatanappleseedcan’thelpbutbecomeanappletree,hehadnotbecomethebestofhusbands.Heknewthatnow.Itwaswhyhehadresolvedtobethebestoffathers.Itwaswhy,thismorning,hehaddrivenallthisway to the Center, the last standing abortion clinic in the state ofMississippi.

What they’d taken away from his daughter shewould never getback, whether she realized it now or not. But that didn’t mean hecouldn’texactaprice.

Helookedaroundthewaitingroom.Threewomenwerehuddledonalineofseats,andattheirfeetwasthenurse,whowascheckingthebandage of the doctor. George scoffed. Doctor,my ass.What he didwasn’thealing,notbyanystretchoftheimagination.Heshouldhavekilled the guy—would have killed the guy—if he hadn’t beeninterruptedwhenhefirstarrivedandstartedfiring.

He thoughtabouthisdaughter sitting inoneof thosechairs.Hewonderedhowshe’dgottenhere.Ifshehadtakenabus.Ifafriendhaddriven her or (he could not even stand to think of it) the boywho’dgotten her in trouble.He imagined himself in an alternate universe,burstingthroughthedoorwithhisgun,seeingherinthechairnexttothepamphletsabouthowtorecognizeanSTD.Hewouldhavegrabbed

herhandandpulledheroutofthere.

Whatwouldshethinkofhim,nowthathewasakiller?

Howcouldhegobacktoher?

Howcouldhegoback,period?

Eighthoursagothishadseemedlikeaholycrusade—aneyeforaneye,alifeforalife.

Hiswoundhadaheartbeat.Georgetriedtoadjustthebindingofthegauzearounditwithhisteeth,butitwasunraveling.Itshouldhavebeentiedoffbetter,butwhoherewasgoingtohelphim?

Thelasttimehehadfeltlikethis,likethewallswereclosinginonhim,hehadtakenhisinfantdaughter—redandscreamingwithafeverhedidn’t know shehad andwouldn’t have knownhow to treat—andgonelookingforhelp.Hehaddrivenuntilhistruckranoutofgas—itwas past one A.M., but he started walking—and continued until hefoundtheonlybuildingwithalightoninside,andanunlockeddoor.Itwas flat-roofed andunremarkable—hehadn’t known itwas a churchuntilhesteppedinsideandsawthebenchesandthewoodenreliefofJesus on the cross. The lights he had seen outside were candles,flickeringonanaltar.Comeback,hehadsaidoutloudtohiswife,whowasprobablyhalfwayacrossthecountrybynow.Maybehewastired,maybehewasdelusional,butheveryclearlyheardareply:I’malreadywithyou.ThevoicewhisperedfromthewoodenJesusandatthesametimefromthedarknessallaroundhim.

George’s conversion had been that simple, and that enveloping.Somehow,heandhisgirlhadfallenasleeponthecarpetedfloor.Inthemorning,PastorMikewas shakinghimawake.Thepastor’swifewascooing at his baby. There was a groaning table of food, and amiraculously spare room. Back then, George hadn’t been a religiousman.Itwasn’tJesusthatenteredhisheartthatday.Itwashope.

HughMcElroy,thehostagenegotiatorGeorgehadbeentalkingtofor hours, saidGeorge’s daughterwould knowhehadbeen trying toprotecther.He’dpromised that ifGeorge cooperated, this could stillend well, even though George knew that outside this building weremenwithriflestrainedonthedoorjustwaitingforhimtoemerge.

Georgewanted this tobeover.Really,hedid.Hewasexhaustedmentallyandphysicallyanditwashardtofigureoutanendgame.He

wassickof thecrying.Hewantedtoskipaheadto thepartwherehewassittingbyhisdaughteragain,andshewaslookingupathimwithwonder,thewaysheusedto.

But George also knew Hugh would say anything to get him tosurrender to the police. It wasn’t even just his job. Hugh McElroyneeded him to release the hostages for the same reason thatGeorgehadtakentheminthefirstplace—tosavetheday.

That’s when George figured out what he was going to do. Hepulledbackthehammeronthegun.“Getup.You,”hesaid,pointingtothegirlwiththenameofabird,theonewhohadstabbedhim.TheonehewouldusetoteachHughMcElroyalesson.

—

HEREWASTHEPRIMARYRULEofhostagenegotiation:Don’tfuckitup.

When Hugh had first joined the regional team, that’s what theinstructors said.Don’t takeabad situationandmake itworse.Don’targue with the hostage taker. Don’t tell him, I get it, because youprobablydon’t.Communicate inaway thatsoothesorminimizes thethreat;andunderstandthatsometimesthebestcommunicationisnotspeakingatall.Activelisteningcangetyoualotfartherthanspoutingoff.

There were different kinds of hostage takers. There were thosewhowereoutoftheirheadwithdrugs,alcohol,grief.Therewerethoseon a political mission. There were those who fanned an ember ofrevenge,untilitflaredupandburnedthemalive.Thentherewerethesociopaths—the ones who had no empathy to appeal to. And yetsometimestheyweretheeasiesttodealwith,becausetheyunderstoodtheconceptofwho’sincontrol.Ifyoucouldmakethesociopathbelievethatyouwerenotgoingtocedetheupperhand,you’dactuallygottensomewhere.Youcouldsay,We’vebeenatthisfortwohours(orsix,orsixteen)andIgetwhat’sonyourmind.Butit’stimetodosomethingnew.Because there is a group ofmen out herewho think time’s upandwanttoaddressthiswithforce.Sociopathsunderstoodforce.

On the other hand, that approach would fail miserably withsomeonedepressedenoughtokillhimselfandtakeotherswithhim.

Thepointofestablishingarelationshipwithahostage takerwastomakesurethatyouweretheonlysourceofinformation,andtogiveyouthetimetofindoutcriticalinformationofyourown.Whatkindof

hostagetakerwereyoufacing?Whathadprecipitatedthestandoff,theshoot-out, the point of no return? Youmight start trying to build arelationship with innocuous conversation about sports, weather, TV.You’dgraduallyfindouthis likesanddislikes,whatmatteredtohim.Didhelovehiskids?Hiswife?Hismom?Why?

If you could find thewhy, you could determine what could bedonetodisarmthesituation.

Hugh knew that the best hostage negotiators called the job aballet,atightropewalk,adelicatedance.

Healsoknewthatwasbullshit.

Nooneeverinterviewedthenegotiatorswhosesituationsendedina bloodbath. It was only the oneswith successful outcomeswho gotmicrophones stuck in their faces, and who felt obligated to describetheirworkassomekindofmysticalart.Inreality,itwasacrapshoot.Dumbluck.

HughMcElroywasafraidhisluckwasabouttorunout.

Hesurveyedthescenehehadspearheadedforthepastfewhours.Hiscommandcenterwasaneventtentthedepartmenthadusedafewweeks ago at a community fair to promote safe child fingerprinting.Beat copswere posted along the building’s perimeter like a string ofblue beads. The press had been corralled behind a police barricade.(You’dthinkthey’dbesmartenoughtogetfurtheroutoftherangeofamadman with a gun, but no, the lure of ratings was apparently toohigh.)Litteredon thesidewalk likeempty threatswereplacardswithgiantpicturesofbabiesinutero,orhand-drawnslogans:ADOPTION,NOTABORTION!IT’SACHILD,NOTACHOICE.

Ambulances hunkered,manned by EMTswith foil blankets andportable IVs andhydration.TheSWAT teamwas inpositionwaitingfor a signal. Their commander, Captain Quandt, had tried to bootHugh off the case (who could blame him?) and take the shooter byforce.ButHughknewQuandtcoulddoneitherofthesethingsingoodconscience,notifHughwasonthevergeofgettingGeorgeGoddardtosurrender.

ThiswasexactlywhatHughhadbeenbankingonwhenhebrokethesecondruleofhostagenegotiationfivehoursago,screamingontothe scene inhisunmarked car, barkingorders to the two street copswho’dbeenfirstresponders.

The secondary rule of hostage negotiationwasDon’t forget thatthisisajob.

Hostage negotiation is not a test of your manhood. It is not achance to be a knight in shining armor, or away to get your fifteenminutesof fame. Itmaygoyourwayand itmaynot,nomatterhowtextbookyourresponsesare.Don’ttakeitpersonally.

ButHughhadknownfromtheget-gothatwasnevergoingtobepossible,nottoday,notthistime,becausethiswasadifferentsituationaltogether.TherewereGodknewhowmanydeadbodiesinthatclinic,plusfivehostageswhowerestillalive.Andoneofthemwashiskid.

The SWAT commander was suddenly standing in front of him.“We’regoinginnow,”Quandtsaid.“I’mtellingyouasacourtesy.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Hugh replied. “I’m telling you as acourtesy.”

Quandtturnedawayandstartedtospeakintothewalkie-talkieathisshoulder.“We’reago in five…four…”Suddenlyhisvoicebroke.“Standdown!Irepeat—abort!”

Itwas theword that had started this disaster.Hugh’s head flewup,andhesawthesamethingQuandthadnoticed.

Thefrontdooroftheclinichadsuddenlyopened,andtwowomenweresteppingoutside.

—

WHENWREN’SMOTHER STILL LIVEDwith them, she’dhada spiderplantthat she kept on topof a bookcase in the living room.After she left,neither Wren nor her father ever remembered to water it, but thatspiderplantseemedtodefydeath.Itbegantospillover itscontainerand grow in a strange verdant comb-over toward awindow,withoutplayingbytherulesoflogicorgravity.

Wrenfeltlikethatnow,swayingonherfeettowardthelighteverytimethedooropened,drawntowhereherfatherstoodintheparkinglotoutside.

Butitwasn’tWrenwhowaswalkingoutofthebuilding.ShehadnoideawhatitwasthatherfatherhadsaidtoGeorgeduringtheirlastphone conversation, but it had worked. George had pulled back thetriggerandtoldhertomovethecouchthathehadusedtobuttressthe

door. Although the hostages couldn’t talk freely without Georgehearing,acurrenthadpassedamongthem.WhenheinstructedWrentoopenthelock,shehadevenbeguntothinkshemightgetoutofhereinonepiece.

Joy and Janinehad left first. ThenGeorge told Izzy to pushoutDr.Wardinthewheelchair.Wrenhadthoughtthatshe’dbereleasedthen, too, but George had grabbed her by her hair and yanked herback. Izzy had turned at the threshold, her face dark, butWren hadgivenasmallshakeofherhead.ThismightbeDr.Ward’sonlychancetogetout,andhewashurt.Shehadtotakehim.Shewasanurse;sheknew.“Wren—”Izzysaid,but thenGeorgeslammedthedoorbehindheranddrovehomethemetalbolt.HereleasedWrenlongenoughtohavehershovethecouchinfrontofthedoorwayagain.

Wrenfeltpanicriseinherthroat.MaybethiswasGeorge’swayofgettingbackatherforwhatshe’ddonetohim.Shewasaloneinherenow,withthisanimal.Well,notquite—hereyesslidalongthefloortoOlive’sbody.

MaybeAuntBexwaswithOlive,whereveryougowhenyoudie.MaybetheywerebothwaitingforWren.

Georgesankdownonthecouchinfrontof thedoor,buryinghisfaceinhishands.Hewasstillholdingthegun.Itwinkedather.

“Areyougoingtoshootme?”sheblurted.

Georgeglancedupasifhewassurprisedshewouldevenaskthatquestion.Sheforcedherselftomeethisgaze.Oneofhiseyespulledthetiniestbittotheright,notsomuchthathelookedweird,butenoughthat it was hard to focus on his face. She wondered if he had toconsciouslypickwhichviewhetookin.Herubbedhisbandagedhandacrosshischeek.

WhenWrenwaslittle,sheusedtoholdherhandstoherfather’sfacetofeelhisstubble.Itmadearaspingsound.He’dsmile,whilesheplayedhisjawlikeaninstrument.

“AmIgoing toshootyou?”George leanedbackon thecushions.“Thatdepends.”

—

IT ALLHAPPENED SO FAST. Oneminute JanineDeguerrewas a hostage,andthenextshewasinamedicaltent,beingcheckedoverbyEMTs.

She looked around, trying to find Joy, but the other hostage withwhomshehadwalkedoutsidewasnowheretobeseen.

“Ma’am,” one of the first responders said, “can you follow thelight?”

Janinesnappedherattentionbacktothekid,whoinfactprobablywasn’tmuchyoungerthanshewas—twenty-four.Sheblinkedathimashewavedalittleflashlightbackandforthinfrontofherface.

Shewasshivering.Notbecauseshewascold,butbecauseshewasinshock.She’dbeenpistol-whippedearlieracrossthetemple,andherheadwas still throbbing.TheEMTwrapped a silvermetallic blanketaround her shoulders, the kind given to marathon runners at thefinish.Well,maybeshehadrunamarathon,metaphorically.Certainlyshehadcrossedaline.

Thesunwaslow,makingshadowscometolife,sothatitwashardtotellwhatwasrealandwhatwasatrickofhereyes.FiveminutesagoJaninehadarguablybeenintheworstdangerofherlife,andyetitwashere underneath a plastic tent surrounded by police and medicalprofessionals thatshe felt isolated.Themereactofwalkingpast thatthresholdhadputherbackwhereshehadstarted:ontheotherside.

Shecranedherneck,lookingforJoyagain.Maybetheyhadtakenhertothehospital, likeDr.Ward.OrmaybeJoyhadsaid,assoonasJaninewasoutofearshot:Getthatbitchawayfromme.

“Ithinkweshouldkeepyouforobservation,”theparamedicsaid.

“I’mokay,”Janineinsisted.“Really.Ijustwanttogohome.”

He frowned. “Is there someone who can stay with you tonight?Justincase?”

“Yes,”shelied.

A cop crouched down beside her. “If you’re feeling up to it,” hesaid, “we’re going to take you back to the station first. We need astatement.”

Janinepanicked.Did they knowabout her?Did shehave to tellthem?Wasitlikegoingtocourt,andswearingonaBible?Orcouldshejustbe,foralittlelonger,someonewhodeservedsympathy?

Shenoddedandgottoherfeet.Withthepoliceman’shandgentlyguidingher, shebegan towalkoutof the tent. Sheheldhermetallic

blanketaroundherlikeanerminecloak.“Wait,”shesaid.“Whatabouteveryoneelse?”

“We’ll be bringing in the others as soon as they’re able,” heassuredher.

“Thegirl,”Janinesaid.“Whataboutthegirl?Didshecomeout?”

“Don’tyouworry,ma’am,”hesaid.

Asurgeofreporterscalledtoher,shoutingquestionsthattangledtogether.Thecopsteppedbetweenherandthemedia,ashield.Heledhertoawaitingpolicecar.Whenthedoorclosed,itwassuffocatinglyhot.Shestaredoutthewindowasthepolicemandrove.

They passed a billboard on the way to the station. Janinerecognizeditbecauseshehadhelpedraisemoneytoerectit.Itwasapictureoftwosmiling,gummy-mouthedbabies—oneblack,onewhite.DIDYOUKNOW,itread,MYHEARTBEATEIGHTEENDAYSFROMCONCEPTION?

Janine knew a lot of facts like that. She also knew how variousreligionsandcultureslookedatpersonhood.Catholicsbelievedinlifeat conception. Muslims believed that it took forty-two days afterconceptionforAllahtosendanangeltotransformspermandeggintosomethingalive.ThomasAquinashadsaidthatabortionwashomicideafter fortydays for amale embryo and eightydays for a female one.Thereweretheoutliers,too—theancientGreeks,whosaidthatafetushada “vegetable” soul, and theJews,whosaid that the soul cameatbirth.Janineknewhowtoconsciouslysteerawayfromthoseopinionsinadiscussion.

Still, it didn’t reallymake sense, did it?How could themomentthat lifebegandiffer somuch,dependingon thepointof view?Howcould the law inMississippi say that an embryowasahumanbeing,but the law in Massachusetts disagreed? Wasn’t the baby the samebaby,nomatterwhetheritwasconceivedonabedinJackson,oronabeachinNantucket?

ItmadeJanine’sheadhurt.Butthen,sodideverythingrightnow.

—

SOON IT WOULD BE GETTING dark. Wren sat on the floor cross-legged,keepinganeyeonGeorgeashehunchedforwardonthecouch,elbowsbalancedonhisknees,andthegunheldlooselyinhisrighthand.ShetoreopenthelastpacketofFigNewtons—allthatwasleftofthebasket

ofsnackstakenfromtherecoveryroom.Herstomachgrowled.

Sheusedtobeafraidofthedark.She’dmakeherdadcomeinwithhis gun in his holster and check out the whole of her bedroom—beneath the bed, under themattress, on the high shelves above herdresser. Sometimes she woke up crying in the middle of the nightconvinced she had seen something fanged and terrible sitting at thefootofherbed,watchingherwithitsyelloweyes.

Nowsheknew:monsterswerereal.

Wrenswallowed.“Yourdaughter,”sheasked.“What’shername?”

Georgeglancedup.“Shutyourmouth,”hesaid.

Thevehemenceofhiswordsmadeherscootbackafewfeet,butasshedid,herlegbrushedsomethingcoldandrigid.Sheknewrightawaywhat it was—who it was—and swallowed her scream. Wren willedherselftoinchforwardagain,curlingherarmsaroundherbentknees.“Ibetyourdaughterwantstoseeyou.”

The shooter’sprofile looked raggedand inhospitable. “Youdon’tknowanything.”

“Ibetshewantstoseeyou,”Wrenrepeated.Iknow,shethought,becauseit’sallIwant.

—

SHELIED.

Janinesatinthepolicestation,acrossfromthedetectivewhowasrecording her statement, and lied. “What brought you to the Centerthismorning?”hehadaskedgently.

“APapsmear,”Janinehadsaid.

Therestthatshehadtoldhimwastrue,andsoundedlikeahorrorfilm: the sound of gunfire, the suddenweight of the clinic employeeslammingintoherandknockinghertothefloor.JaninehadchangedintoacleanT-shirt that theparamedicshadgivenher,butshecouldstillfeelthewoman’shotblood(somuchblood)seepingintoherdress.Evennow,lookingdownatherhands,sheexpectedtoseeit.

“Thenwhathappened?”

Shefoundshecouldnotrememberinsequence.Insteadoflinkedmoments,therewereonlyflashes:herbodyshakinguncontrollablyas

she ran; her hands pressed against the bullet wound of an injuredwoman.TheshooterjerkinghispistolatJanine,whileIzzystoodnexttohimwithaheapofsuppliesinherarms.Thephoneringing,astheyallfrozelikemannequins.

Janinefeltlikeshewaswatchingamovie,oneshewasobligatedtositthrougheventhoughshehadneverwantedtoseeit.

Whenshegottothepartwheretheshootersmackedherwiththegun,sheleftoutwhy.Alieofomission,that’swhattheyusedtocallitwhenshewasalittlegirlgoingtoconfession.Itwasasin,too,butofadifferent degree. Still, sometimes you lied to protect people.Sometimesyouliedtoprotectyourself.

Whatwasonemorelietoaddtotheothers?

Shewas crying as she spoke. She didn’t even realize it until thedetectiveleanedforwardwithaboxoftissues.

“CanIaskyouaquestion?”shesaid.

“Ofcourse.”

She swallowed. “Do you think that people get what’s coming tothem?”

The detective looked at her for a long moment. “I don’t thinkanyonedeservesadayliketoday,”hesaid.

Janinenodded.Sheblewhernoseandballed the tissue intoherhand.

Suddenlythedooropened,andauniformedofficerstuckhisheadinside.“There’sagentlemanoutherewhosaysheknowsyou…?”

Behindhim,JaninecouldseeAllen—his floridcheeksandbroadbelly,theonethatmadehimjokethatheknewwhatitwasliketobepregnant. Allen was the leader of the local Right to Life group.“Janine!”hecried,andhepushedpastthecopsothathecouldfoldherintohisarms.“SweetJesus,”hesighed.“Honey,we’vebeenprayingforyou.”

Sheknew theyprayed foreverywomanwhowalked through thedoorsoftheCenter.This,though,wasdifferent.Allenwouldnothavebeenabletomakepeacewithhimselfifanythinghadhappenedtoher,becausehehadbeentheonetosendherinsideasaspy.

MaybeGodhadbeenlistening,becauseshehadbeenreleased.But

sowereJoy,andIzzy,andDr.Ward.Andwhataboutthosewhodidn’tmakeitoutalive?WhatkindofcapriciousGodwouldrollthedicelikethat?

“Letmetakeyouhomeandgetyousettled,”Allensaid.Andtothedetective,“I’msureMizDeguerreneedsalittlerest.”

The detective looked directly at Janine, as if to seewhether shewasokaywithAllencallingtheshots.Andwhyshouldn’tshebe?Shehaddonewhathewantedfromthemomentshearrivedintown,intenttoservehismissionanywayshecould.Andsheknewthathemeantwell.“We’remorethanhappytogiveyouaridewhereveryouneedtogo,”thedetectivesaidtoher.

Hewasofferingherachoice;anditfeltheadyandpowerful.

“Ihavetousetherestroom,”sheblurted,anotherlie.

“Ofcourse.”Thedetectivegestureddownthehallway.“Leftattheend,andthenthirddoorontheright.”

Janinestartedwalking,stillclutchingherfoilblanketaroundhershoulders.Shejustneededspace,forasecond.

At theendof thehallwaywasanother interrogationroom,muchlike the one she had been in.What had been amirror on the insidewas,fromthisvantagepoint,awindow.Joysatatatablewithafemaledetective.

Before she realizedwhat shewasdoing, Janinewas knocking atthewindow. Itmust havemade a sound, because Joy turned in herdirection, even if she couldn’t see Janine’s face. The interrogationroomdoorswungopen,andamomentlaterafemaledetectivelookedather.“Isthereaproblem?”

Throughtheopendoorway,shemetJoy’sgaze.

“Weknoweachother,”Janinesaid.

Afteramoment,Joynodded.

“Ijustwantedto…Iwantedtosee…”Janinehesitated.“Ithoughtyoumightneedhelp.”

Thedetectivefoldedherarms.“We’llmakesureshegetswhateversheneeds.”

“I know but—” Janine looked at Joy. “You shouldn’t be alone

tonight.”

She feltJoy’seyes flicker to thebandageather temple. “Neithershouldyou,”Joysaid.

—

INTHEHOSPITALROOM,THEREwasapieceoftapestucktooneoftheslatsoftheair-conditioningventoverhead.Itflutteredlikearibbon,likeanimprobablecelebration,asIzzy layonherbackpretendingshedidn’tfeelthedoctor’shandsonher.

“Herewe go,” theOBmurmured.Hemoved thewand left, andthen right, and then pointed to the fuzzy screen, to the edge of theblack amoeba of Izzy’s uterus, where the white peanut of the fetuscurled. “Come on… come on…” Therewas something urgent in hisvoice.Thentheybothsawit—theflickerofaheartbeat.Somethingshehadseenmultipletimesinotherwomen’sultrasounds.

Sheletoutabreathshedidn’tknowshe’dbeenholding.

Thedoctortookmeasurementsandrecordedthem.Hewipedthegel off her belly andpulled the drapedown to cover her again. “MizWalsh,”hesaid,“youareoneluckylady.You’regoodtogo.”

Izzystruggledontoherelbows.“Wait…so…that’sit?”

“Obviously, you’ll want to make sure that you don’t have anycramping or bleeding in the next few days,” the doctor added, “butgiventhestrengthof thatheartbeat, I’dsay that littleguy—orgirl—isplanningonstickingaround.Definitelytakesafteritsmama.”

Hesaidhe’dwriteupsomedischargeordersandduckedoutofthecurtainthatseparatedherERcubiclefromtheothers.Izzylaybackonthegurneyandslippedherhandsunderneaththescratchyblanket.Sheflattenedthemonherstomach.

Assoonasshehadgottenoutsidetheclinic,theEMTshadputheronastretcherbesideDr.Ward,evenasshehadtriedtotellthemshewasn’thurt.Hewouldhavenoneof it. “She’spregnant,”he insisted.“Sheneedsmedicalattention.”

“Youneedmedicalattention,”sheargued.

“There she goes again,” Dr. Ward said to the young paramedicinspecting his tourniquet. “Won’t give me a moment’s peace.” Hecaughthereye.“Forwhich,”hesaidquietly,“Iamsupremelygrateful.”

Thatwasthelastshehadseenofhim.Shewonderedifhewasinsurgery;ifhewouldkeeptheleg.Shehadagoodfeelingaboutit.

Maybesomepeoplesimplyweredestinedtosurvive.

She had grown up with a chronically unemployed father and amotherwhostruggledtotakecareofIzzyandhertwinbrothers, inahousesosmallthatthethreekidssharednotjustaroombutabed.Butforalongtime,shedidn’tevenknowshewaspoor.Hermotherwouldtake them on a spare change hunt. They’d go fishing for dinner.Occasionally they celebratedColonialWeek—when theyused candlesinsteadofelectriclights.

When Izzy thought about her life, there was such a clear breakbetween then and now.Now, she livedwith Parker in a house threetimes larger thanher childhoodhome.Hewas, on paper, the princefromtheentitledfamilywho’dfallenforadebt-riddennursing-studentCinderella.Theyhadmetwhenhewas in tractionwithabroken leg.Theirfirstdate,helikedtosay,hadbeenaspongebath.

ParkerhadgonetoYalelikehisfatherandgrandfatherandgreat-grandfather. He had grown up in Eastover, the snobbiestneighborhood in the whole state. He went to private schools anddressed inminiatureblazers and ties evenas a child.He summered.Evenhisjob—adocumentaryfilmmaker—waspossibleonlybecauseofhistrustfund.

Izzy still ordered the cheapest thing on a menu if they ate out.Theirfreezerwaspackedwithfood,notbecauseshecouldn’taffordtogogroceryshoppingnow,butbecauseyouneverstoppedanticipatinganotherleantime.

They might as well have come from different planets. How onearthweretheysupposedtoraiseachildtogether?

Izzywondered ifnow—finally—the fault lineofher lifewouldnolongerbethefirstdaysheearnedapaycheck.Itwouldnowbetoday’sshooting;shewoulddivideeverythingintobeforeandafter.

Anurseenteredthecubicle.“Howareyoufeeling?”

“I’mgood,”Izzysaid,gladthathershakinghandswerestilltuckedundertheblanket.

“Igotsomeinformationonthatpatientyouaskedafter…”

“Dr.Ward?”Izzysatup.

“No.Thewoman.Bexsomething?Shecameoutofsurgeryokay,”thenursesaid.“She’sinintensivecare.”

Izzyfelttearsspringtohereyes.ThankGod.“AndwhataboutDr.Ward?”

Thenurseshookherhead. “Ihaven’theardanythingyet,but I’llkeepaneyeout.”ShelookedatIzzywithsympathy.“Iguessy’allwentthroughHelltogether.”

They sure had. In trying to save Bex’s life, Izzy had pushed herfingerthroughtheotherwoman’schestwall;hadfeltforthepillowofherlaboredlungs.ShehadbeencoveredinDr.Ward’sblood.

“The police want to talk to you,” the nurse said. “They’ve beenwaiting.Butifyou’renotfeelinguptoit,I’mhappytotellthem.”

“CanIusetherestroom,first?”

“Yousurecan,”thenursereplied.ShehelpedIzzyoff thegurneyand led her through the curtain to a single-person bathroom. “Youneedanyhelp?”

Izzy shook her head. She closed the door and locked it, leanedagainstthewood.TheshakeshadmigratedfromherhandstotherestofIzzy’sbody.Herteethwerechatteringnow.

Textbookshock.

“Pullyourselftogether,”shecommanded,andsheranwaterinthesinkandsplashed itonher face.Sheblottedherskindrywithpapertowels, lookingat thebathroommirror,andimmediatelywishedthatshehadn’t.Herhairhadlongagoescapeditsbraidandwasahotredfrizz around her face. The scrubs they had given her to replace thebloodyonesshehadbeenwearingwhenshewasbroughtinweretoobig,andthetopwasslippingoffoneshoulder,likeareallypoorversionofasexynursefantasy.Althoughshehadwashedoffmostofthebloodthat covered her arms and neck, she could see the spots she hadmissed.

Shescrubbeduntilherskinwasrawandthenwalkedbacktoherlittle cubicle.Hovering outside the curtainwas a police officer. “MizWalsh?I’mOfficerThibodeau.Iwashopingyoumightbeabletojustgiveashortstatement?”

Shedrewback the curtainand satdownon thegurney,her legsdangling.“Wheredoyouwantmetostart?”

Thibodeauscratchedabovehisearwithhispen.“Well,Iguessatthebeginning,”hesaid.“Youwenttotheclinicthismorning?”

“Yes.”

“Howlonghaveyouworkedthere?”

Before shecould respond, therewasavoicedemanding toknowwhereIzzywas.

Parker.

Izzy’slegsslidoffthetableandshesteppedforwardashepushedpastthenurseandtheresidentwhoweretryingtokeephimoutofthesecurepatientarea.

“Parker!”sheshouted,andhisheadsnappedtowardher.

“Izzy,myGod.”Hetookthreegiantstepsandcrushedherintohisarms.Heheldher so tight shealmost couldn’tbreathe.But sheonlynoticedthatwhenshetouchedhim,shefinallystoppedshaking.

When the paramedics had first brought Izzy in and the intakenurseaskedherwhotheycouldcallasnextofkin,Parker’snamehadslippedoutofhermouth.Thatwastelling,wasn’tit?

Maybetherewasaway tostopworryingaboutwhatmightdrivethemapart,andtofocusonwhatboundthemtogether.

“Areyouokay?”heasked.

Shenoddedagainsthim.

“You’re not hurt?” Parker pulled away, holding her at arm’slength.Thereweredozensofquestionswrittenacrosshisfeatures,andhestaredintohereyesasifheweretryingtofindtheanswers.Orthetruth.Maybetheywereeven,foronce,thesame.

Thiswasnothow—orwhere—shehadthoughtherdaywouldend.Butsomehow, itwasexactlywheresheneeded tobe. “I’m fine,” Izzysaid. She took his hand and flattened it against her belly, smiling.“We’refine.”

SuddenlyIzzy’sfuturenolongerseemedimpossible.Itfeltlikethestampofapassportwhenyoureachedyourowncountry,andrealizedthat the only reason you’d traveled was to remember the feeling of

home.

—

WHEN ONE OF THE JUNIOR detectives brought the word that his oldersisterBexwasoutofsurgery,Hughwingedasilentthank-youtoaGodhehad long ago stoppedbelieving in. The part of his brain that hadbeenworryingabouthercouldgobacktofocusingonWren,whowasstillintherewithamurderer.

First the twowomenhadbeen released.Then thenurseand theinjuredabortiondoctor.

Hughhadwaited.Andwaited.And…nothing.

Hepacedthecommandcenterfromwherehehadmadethecalltogivetheshooterafewmoreminutes,inthehopehewouldmakegoodonhispromise to releaseall thehostages.Thequestionwas, hadhemadeabaddecision?Afatalone,forWren?

Captain Quandt approached once again, blocking Hugh’s path.“Okay, I’m done waiting. He released most of them. Now we’reflushinghimout.”

“Youcan’tdothat.”

“ThehellIcan’t,”Quandtsaid.“I’mincharge,Lieutenant.”

“Only on paper.” Hugh stepped closer, inches away from him.“There’sstillahostage.Goddarddoesn’tknowyoufromaholeinthewall.Yougointhereandwebothknowhowthiswillend.”

WhatHughdidn’tsaywasthatitmightstillendthatway.WhatifGeorge had agreed to release the hostages, planning all along to gobackonhisword?Whatifhewantedtogooutinablazeofbullets,andtakeWren with him?Was this going to be his ultimate fuck-you toHugh?

Quandtmethisgaze.“Webothknowyou’retooclosetothistobethinkingclearly.”

Hughremainedimmobile,hisarmscrossed.“That’sexactlywhyIdon’twantyoublastingthroughthatgoddamndoor.”

The commander narrowed his eyes. “I will give him ten moreminutestoreleaseyourdaughter.AndthenIwilldoeverythinginmypowertomakesuresheissafe…butwe’reendingthis.”

TheminuteQuandtwalked away,Hughpickeduphis cellphoneand dialed the clinic number, the same one he had been using forhours now to speak to George. It rang and rang and rang. Pick up,Hugh thought.Hehadnotheardanygunshots,but thatdidn’tmeanWrenwassafe.

After eighteen rings, he was about to hang up. Then: “Daddy?”Wrensaid,andhecouldn’thelpit,hiskneesjustgaveout.

“Hey,sweetheart,”hesaid,tryingtotampdowntheemotioninhisvoice.Herememberedwhenshewasatoddler,andshehadfallen.IfHughlookedupset,Wrenwouldburstintotears.Ifheseemedunfazed,shepickedherselfupandkeptgoing.“Areyouallright?”

“Y-yes.”

“Didhehurtyou?”

“No.”Apause.“IsAuntBex—”

“She’sgoingtobefine,”Hughsaid,althoughhedidnotknowthisfor sure. “I want you to know I love you,” he added, and he couldpracticallyhearthepanicriseinhisdaughter.

“AreyousayingthatbecauseI’mgoingtodie?”

“Not if Ihaveanything todowith it.WouldyouaskGeorge,”hesaid,andthenheswallowed.“Wouldyouaskhimifhe’dpleasespeaktome?”

Heheardmuffledvoices,andthenGeorge’svoicewasontheline.“George,”Hughsaidevenly,“Ithoughtwehadadeal.”

“Wedid.”

“Youtoldmeyou’dreleasethehostages.”

“Idid,”Georgesaid.

“Notallofthem.”

Therewasahitchintheconversation.“Youdidn’tspecify,”Georgereplied.

Hughcurledhisbodyaroundthephone,likehewaswhisperingtoalover.“Youwanttotellmewhat’sreallygoingon,George?”Apause.“Youcantalktome.Youknowthat.”

“It’sallalie.”

“What’salie?”

“OnceIletyourkidgo,whathappenstome?”

“We’lltalkaboutthatwhenyoucomeoutside.Youandme,”Hughsaid.

“Bullshit.Mylife’sover,eitherway.EitherIgotojailandrotthereforeverortheyshootme.”

“Thatwon’thappen,”Hughpromised.“Iwon’t let ithappen.”Heglanceddownatthenoteshe’dscribbledafterhislastdiscussionwithGeorge.“Remember?Youendthis,andyougettodotherightthing.Yourdaughter—hell,thewholeworld—willbewatching,George.”

“Sometimes doing the right thing,” George said quietly, “meansdoingsomethingbad.”

“Itdoesn’thaveto,”Hughsaid.

“Youdon’tgetit.”George’svoicewastight,distant.“Butyouwill.”

That was a threat. That definitely sounded like a threat. Hughglanced at the SWAT team commander. Quandt was staring at himfromthecornerofthetent.Heliftedhisarm,pointedtohiswatch.

“LetWrengo,”Hughbargained,“andIwillmakesureyoucomeoutofthisalive.”

“No.Theywon’tshootmeaslongasI’vegother.”

WhatHughneeded todowasofferaviablealternative,one thatdidnotinvolveWren,butletGeorgestillbelievehewasprotected.

Justlikethat,heknewwhattodo.

Hugh lookedat thecaptain.TherewasnowayQuandtwouldgoforthis.Itwastoorisky.Hughwouldlosehisjob—maybehislife—buthisdaughterwouldbesafe.Therewasreallynochoice.

“George,”hesuggested,“takemeinstead.”

—

BEXWASDEAD.SHEHAD tobedead,becauseeverythingwaswhiteandtherewasabrightlight,andwasn’tthatwhateveryonesaidtoexpect?

SheturnedherheadafractiontotheleftandsawtheIVpole,thesalinedrippingintoher.Thelightoverheadwasfluorescent.

Ahospital.Shewastheveryoppositeofdead.

HerthroattightenedasshethoughtaboutWrenandaboutHugh.Washernieceallright?SheimaginedWren,kneebent,drawingonthewhite lip of her sneaker. She picturedHugh leaning over her in theambulance.ThatwashowBexsawtheworld, in images.Hadshere-created it in her studio, she would call it Reckoning. She wouldhighlightthecordsoftensioninHugh’sneck,thevibrationofWren’smovinghand.Thebackgroundwouldbethecolorofabruise.

Bex had installationswith collectors as far away asChicago andCalifornia.Herworkswerethesizeofawall.Ifyoustoodatadistanceyoumightseeafemininehandonapregnantbelly.Ababyreachingfora mobile overhead. A woman in the throes of labor. If you steppedcloser, you saw that the portrait was made of hundreds of used,multicoloredPost-itnotes,carefullyshellackedintoplaceonagrid.

People talked about the social commentary of Bex’s work. Bothhersubject—parenthood—andhermedium—discardedto-dolistsanddisposable reminders—were fleeting. But her transformation of thatheartbeat,thatparticularsecond,renderedittimeless.

ShehadbeenfamousforabriefmomenttenyearsagowhenTheNewYorkTimesincludedherinapieceonup-and-comingartists(fortherecord,sheneverupandwentanywhere,afterthat).Thereporterhadasked:sinceBexwassingleandhadnokids,hadshepickedthissubjectinordertomasterinartwhatwassopersonallyelusive?

ButBex had never neededmarriage or children. She hadHugh.She hadWren. True, she believed all artists were restless, but theyweren’talwaysrunninginpursuitofsomething.Sometimestheywererunningawayfromwheretheyhadbeen.

Anurseentered.“Heythere,”hesaid.“Howareyoufeeling?”

Shetriedtositup.“Ineedtogo,”shesaid.

“You aren’t going anywhere. You’re tenminutes out of surgery.”Hefrowned.“IstheresomeoneIcangetforyou?”

Yes, please, Bex thought. But they are both currently in themiddleofahostagestandoff.

Ifonly itwere that simple to rescueWren.Shecouldn’t imaginewhatHughwasfeelingrightnow,butshehadtobelieveinhim.He’dhaveaplan.Hughalwayshadaplan.Hewastheoneshecalledwhen

thetoiletsinherhouseallstoppedworkingatonce,likeacosmicplot.He trapped theskunk thathad takenupresidenceunderherancientMini Cooper. He ran toward the scream of a burglar alarm, wheneveryone else was fleeing. There was nothing that rattled him, nochallengetoodaunting.

She suddenly remembered him, fifteen or sixteen, riveted by acomic book and completely ignoring her. Only when Bex grabbed itfrom him did he look up.Damn, Hugh had said, one syllable withequalpartsshock,respect,andsadness.TheykilledoffSuperman.

Whatifshelosthim?Whatifshelostthemboth?

“Canyouturnonthetelevision?”sheasked.

ThenursepressedabuttononaremotecontrolandthensettleditunderneathBex’spalm.Oneverylocalchanneltherewasalivereportabout theCenter. Bex stared at the screen, at the orangeCreamsiclestuccoofthebuilding,theribbonsofpolicetapeblockingitoff.

Shecouldn’tseeHugh.

So sheclosedhereyesandsketchedhim inher imagination.Hewassilhouettedbythesun,andhewaslargerthanlife.

BexcouldstillrememberthefirsttimesherealizedthatHughwastaller thanshewas.Shehadbeen inthekitchen,makingdinner,andhad dragged a chair toward the cabinet so that she could reach thedried basil on the highest shelf. From behind her, Hugh had justpluckeditoffitsrack.

Inthatmoment,Bexrealizedeverythingwasdifferent.Hughhadgrown up, and somehow she had gone from taking care of him tobecomingtheonewhowasbeingtakencareof.

“Well,”shehadsaid.“That’shandy.”

He’dbeen fourteen.He’d shrugged. “Don’t getused to it,”Hughhadsaid.“Iwon’tbehereforever.”

Bexhadwatchedhimjogupthestairstohisroom.Andthen,soonafter,shehadwatchedhimgotocollege,fallinlove,moveintohisownhome.

Nomatterhowmany timesyou let someonego, itnevergotanyeasier.

—

HUGH HUNG UP THE PHONE. “I’m going in,” he announced. “Alone. Hewantsahostage?Hecanhaveme.”

“Absolutelynot,”Quandt said, turning toamemberofhis team.“Jones,getyourteamto—”

Hugh ignored him and startedwalking.Quandt grabbedHugh’sarmandspunhimaround.

“Ifyoustorminthere,therewillbecasualties,”Hughsaid.“Iamtheonlyonehetrusts.IfIcangethimtowalkoutwithme,it’sawin.”

“Andifyoucan’t?”thecommanderargued.

“I won’t condone an action that risks my daughter,” Hughsnapped. “Sowhere does that leave us?”His furywas a shimmeringcurtain,buttherewereglimpsesofwhathewashidingbehindit.

The twomen stopped, staring at each other, a standoff. Finally,Hughglancedaway.“Joe,”hesaid,hisvoicebroken.“Yougotkids?”

TheSWAT leader lookeddown at the ground. “I’mhere to do ajob,Hugh.”

“Iknow.”Hughshookhishead.“AndIknowIshouldhavewalkedawayassoonasIfoundoutWrenwasinside.Godknowsthisishardenoughwhenyoudon’thaveapersonalstake.ButIdo.AndIcan’tsitonthesidelines,notifshe’sinthere.Ifyouwon’tdothisforme,willyoudoitforher?”

Quandt took a deep breath. “One condition. I get a couple ofsnipersintopositionfirst,”hesaid.

Hughheldouthishand,andthemenshook.“Thankyou.”

Quandtmethisgaze. “EllieandKate,”he said, just loudenoughforHughtohear.“Twins.”

He turnedaway,callingover twoofhismenandpointing to theroofofabuildingacrossthestreetandaspotontopof theclinic.Asthey strategized,Hughwalkedbackunderneath the tent.He saw theyoungdetectivewhohadbroughthimnewsofBex.“Collins,”hecalled.“Overhere.”

Shehurriedtothecommandtent.“Yes,sir?”

“Thatpatientinthehospital—BexMcElroy,mysister?Ineedyoutogiveanotetoher.”

The detective nodded, waiting while Hugh sat down at hismakeshiftdesk.Hepickedupapenandrippedapageoffhislegalpad.

Whatdidyousay to thewomanwho’dbasically raisedyou?Theonewho had nearly died today only because she had been trying tohelphisowndaughter?

HethoughtofadozenthingshecouldtellBex.

Thatshewas theonlyonewho laughedathis terribledad jokes,theonesthatmadeWrencringe.Thatifhewasondeathrow,hislastmealwouldbeherchickenParmesan.Thathecouldstillrememberhermakingshadowpuppetsonhisbedroomwall,tryingtobribehimtogoto sleep. That, at age eight, he hadn’t known what the SavannahCollegeofArtwas—oreven that shehadgivenupher scholarship tocometakecareofhimwhentheirmotherwenttodryout—butthathewishedhe’dsaidthankyou.

But Hugh had never been good at putting his feelings intosentences.Itwaswhathadledhimtothisverypoint,thisveryinstant.

Sohewrotedownasinglewordandpassedittothedetective.

Goodbye.

—

LOUIEWARDWASUNCONSCIOUS,ANDintheoceanofhismemory,hewasnotafifty-four-year-oldob-gynbutayoungboygrowingupbeneathacanopy of Spanishmoss, trying to catch crawfish before they caughthim.He had been raised to love Jesus andwomen, in precisely thatorder. In southern Louisiana, he was reared by two ladies—hisgrandmama and Mama—living in a small cottage that was, as hisgrandmother pointed out, still a palace if the Lord dwelled thereamong you. He was a practicing Catholic, as was everyone else heknew, theresultofa long-deadwhite landownerwhohadcomefromFrancewitharosaryinhispocketandwhohadbaptizedallhisslaves.Louie had been a sickly child, too skinny and too smart for his owngood.Hehadwheezylungsthatkepthimfromtaggingalongwiththeotherkids,whosnuckatmidnight intonearbyhousesrumoredtobehaunted, to see what they might find. Instead he followed hisgrandmama to Mass every day and he helped Mama with herpiecework, using tweezers to pinch tiny links into gold chains thatwounduparoundthenecksofrichwhitewomen.

Louiehadnevermethisfather,andknewbetterthantoaskabouthimsincehisgrandmamareferredtohimastheSinner,butwhateverhole his father’s absence had left in him was, by age nine, wellplasteredover.

Louie knew how to open doors for ladies and to say please andthank you and yes,ma’am.He slept on a cot in the kitchen that hemade with tight hospital corners, and helped kept the house tidy,becauseashisgrandmamahad taughthim,Jesuswascomingatanymomentandthey’dbestallbeready.Mamahadspellswhereshecouldnotmusterthecouragetogetoutofbed,andsometimesspentweekscocoonedthere,crying.ButevenwhenLouiewasalone,hewasneveralone,becausealltheladiesintheneighborhoodheldhimaccountableforhisbehavior.Itwaschildraisingbycommittee.

OldMiss Essie came and sat on their porch every day. She toldLouie about her daddy, a slave who had escaped his plantation byswimming through the bayou, braving the alligators becauserelinquishinghisbodytothemwouldat leasthavebeenhisdecision.Hehadnotonlysurvivedwithallhis limbs,hehadhiddenalongtheNatchezTrace,movingonlybythelightofthemoonandfollowingtheinstructions of everyday saints who had helped others get free.Eventuallyhehad reached Indiana,marriedawoman, andhadMissEssie.Shewouldleanforward,hereyesbright,andhammerhomethemoralofthisstory.Boy,shetoldLouie,don’tyouletnobodytellyouwhoyoucan’tbe.

MissEssiekneweverythingabouteverybody,soitwasnosurprisethatshecouldtelltalesaboutSebbyCherise,thehedgewitchrumoredtobedescendedfromthevoodoopriestessMarieLaveau.Whatwasasurprise was that Louie’smama had been the one doing the asking.Thebayoucouldbeeasilysplitbetweenthosewhobelievedingris-grisand those who believed in the Lord, and Grandmama had set herfamilysquarely inthe lattercamp.LouiehadnoideawhathismamacouldpossiblywantfromSebbyCherise.

Hismamawas themostbeautifulwoman in theworld,withsadeyesyoufellinto,andavoicethatsandedallyourroughedges.Forthepast fewmonths he’d noticed that she hadn’t cried, and instead hadbeenrisingasifheliumwerepulsingthroughherveins.Shehummedwhen she wasn’t aware, melodies woven through her braids. Louierodetheoutskirtsofhergoodmood.

WhenMamakneltbesidehimandaskedifhecouldkeepasecret,hewouldhavefollowedhertoHellandback.Which,asitturnedout,wasnotthatfarfromthemark.

That summerwasaparched throat, andasLouieandhismamahiked to the witch’s home, his clothes became a second skin. SebbyCheriselivedinthebayou,inahutwithaporchthatwasdrapedwithdriedflowers.TherewerecrudelyletteredsignsthatsaidKEEPOUT.

Sebby Cherise traded in miracles. Jimsonweed, cut with honeyandsulfurandcrossedbythepathofablackcat,couldrootoutcancer.Dixie love perfume could net you the man who slipped into yourdreams.Five-fingergrasssetawardaroundyourhousetokeepitsafe.Louie wondered if it was one of Sebby’s potions or pouches thataccountedforhismother’srecentgoodspirits.

Healsoknew,fromhisgrandmamaandthepriest,thatthedealsyoumadewiththedevilcamebacktobiteyou.Butjustlikehismamaseemedwilling tooverlook that, sowasLouie, if itmeant she stayedthisway.

Hismamatoldhimtostayontheporch,soheonlyhadaglimpseofSebbyCherise,withherlongredskirtandthescarfwrappedaroundherhead.Shemighthavebeentwentyyearsold,ortwohundred.ShebeckonedMama inside, and the bangles on her arm sang.Her voicesoundedlikefingernailsonwood.

Itdidn’ttakelong.Mamacameoutclutchingasmallpacketonastring. She looped this around her neck and tucked it in under herdress,betweenherbreasts.Theywenthome,andthatafternoon,Louiewent toMass with his grandmama and prayed that his mother hadgottenwhateversheneeded,andthatJesuswouldforgiveherfornotgoingtoHiminstead.

Oneweek later, itwas sohot thatGrandmama stayed at churchbetweenmorningandeveningMass.MamatoldLouieshewasgoingto take a nap.Near dinnertime, Louiewent towake her up, but shedidn’t answer at his knock.When he turned the knob he found hismotherlyingonthefloor,awideningtriangleofbloodpoolingbetweenherlegs.Herskinfeltlikemarble,theonlycoolsurfaceintheworld.

—

THE OUTPOURING OF GOODWILL IN the aftermath of Mama’s death hadgivenwaytothewhispersLouieheardwhenhepassedfolksinchurch,

orwalkeddownthestreetholdingfasttohisgrandmother.SomethingaboutMamaandMr.Bouffet,themayor,whoLouieknewonlyforhismarshaling of theMardiGras paradewith his pretty blondwife andmatching blond daughters at his side. And something else aboutabortion:awordhehadneverheardbefore.

Hisgrandmamawouldsqueezehishandtokeephimfromlookingatthepeoplewhomurmuredbehindtheirhandsandstared.

Shesqueezedhishandalot,thosedays.

Shewassqueezingnow.

Dr. Louie Ward’s eyes flew open and he immediately struggledagainsthissurroundings—thesoftbeepofaheartmonitor, thesnakeof tubing inhis IV.Hedidn’t feelpain inhis leg,asheexpected,butthen if he was in a hospital he probably had some kind of nerveblocker. The only thing that hurt like hell was his hand, which wasbeing clutched by a skinny girl with pink hair and a ring of hoopsclimbingthecartilageofherleftear.“Rachel?”herasped,andherheadflewup.

TheadministrativeassistantattheclinichadpinchedfeaturesthatalwaysremindedLouieofabadger.“I’msorry,Dr.Ward,”shesobbed.“I’msosorry.”

He glanced down at his leg, thinking for one panickedmomentthat perhaps it had been amputated, and that was the source ofRachel’s hysterics—but no, it was there, if swathed in batting like acloudofcottoncandy.ThankGodforthatnurseattheclinic.“Rachel,”he said, raising his voice over the sound of her weeping. “Rachel, Ialreadyfeel likeIwasrunoverbyatruck.Don’tgivemeaheadache,too.”

Butthegirlshowednosignsofquieting.Hedidn’tknowherverywell—he flew tomany clinics around the country, and the staff oftenblurredwitheachother.HewasprettysureRachelwasagradstudentat Jackson State. She worked part-time as what the antis called a“deathscort”—guiding women from the parking lot inside the clinic.She also helped Vonita, the clinic owner, with administrative work.There was so much to do at the Center that they all pitched in,wherevertheyhadto.

“I’msorry,”Rachelrepeated,wipinghernoseonhersleeve.

Louie was used to crying women. “You got nothing to be sorryabout,”hesaid.“Unlessyouralteregoisamiddle-agedwhiteantiwithagun.”

“Iran,Dr.Ward.”Rachelmusteredthecouragetoglanceathim,buthergazeslidawayagain.“I’macoward.”

Hehadnotevenknown that shewas in thebuildingat the timetheshootingbegan.Ofcourse,shewouldhavebeenup front,andhewas in the rear in a procedure room. And naturally she wanted tobelieveshewouldhavebeenahero,whenpushcametoshove.Butyounever knew what path you’d take until you got to that crossroads.Hadn’t Louie heard this a thousand times before, frompatientswhohadcometotheCenter,whoseemedshell-shockedtofindthemselvesthere,asifthey’dawakenedinsomeoneelse’slife?

“You’re alive to tell the story,” he said. “That’s what matters.”Louiewas aware, even as he spoke, of the irony.He turned his ownwords over in hismind. Coal, with time and heat and pressure, willalways become a diamond. But if you were freezing to death, whichwouldyouconsiderthegem?

—

IDIDN’TCLEANTHEHOUSE,Joythought,assheunlockedthedoorofherapartment. Breakfast cereal had dried to a crust in a bowl on thekitchentable;therewereemptyglassesonthecoffeetableinfrontofthetelevision;abradangledfromthearmofthecouch.“Theplaceisamess,”sheapologizedtoJanine.

Thenagain,Joyhadnotexpectedtobringhomeananti-abortionactivistonthedayshewenttoterminateherownpregnancy.

When thedoor opened, therewas a scatter ofmail on the floor.JoystartedtobenddowngingerlybutJaninemovedfaster.“Letme,”shesaid.

Letmedriveyouhome.

Letmegetyousettled.

Janinehadtakenoverlikeamotherhen,whichwasoddgiventhattheywereprobablyclosetothesameage.ShewatchedJaninegatherthebillandflyers.“Perry,”Janinesaid,andsheofferedasmallsmile.“Ididn’tknowyourlastname.”

Joylookedather.“Same.”

“DeGuerre,” Janine answered. She held out her hand. “Nice tomeetyou.Officially.”

Joy smiled awkwardly, uncomfortable with the forced intimacy.AllJoyreallywantedtodowasstripdown,get intoherpajamasandfuzzysocks,haveaglassofwine,andcry.

Janinesetthemailonthekitchentableandturned.“WhatcanIgetyou?Areyouhungry?Thirsty?Howaboutsometea?Shepaused.“Doyouhavetea?”

Joycouldn’thelpit,shelaughed.“Yeah.Cabinetoverthestove.”

While the water boiled, Joy went to the bathroom. She had tochangehersanitarynapkin,butafteramomentofpanicrealizedshedidn’thaveany.ShehadbeentoldtobringonetotheCentersincetheydidn’t provide them, and it had been the last in the box. She’d beenplanningtoswingbythedrugstoreonthewayhome.

Frustrated, she tore apart the closet, the medicine cabinet,scatteringpillsandointmentsandlotions.

Thelastthingshepulledoutoftherecessesofthedrawerbeneaththe sink was a dusty, crusted bottle of calamine lotion. Calaminelotion.Forfuck’ssake.Shehadcalaminelotion,butnotapad?

Joy grabbed the bottle and hurled it at the bathroom mirror,shatteringit.

Therewasa soft knockon thedoor. Janine stood there,holdingher knapsack. She had left it locked in the trunk of her car thatmorning,sounliketherestofthepossessionsofthehostages,ithadn’tbeenpartofacrimescene.“Ithoughtyoumightneedthis,”shesaid,andsheheldoutasmall,squarewrappedKotexpad.

Joy took it, closed thedoor,andwent to thebathroom.Shewasangry that her savior—again—had been Janine. As she washed herhands,shelookedintothefracturedmirror.Herfrecklesstoodoutinrelieffromherpaleskin;herhairlookedlikeasmallanimalhadtakenupresidenceinit.Therewasbloodonherneck.Sherubbeditoffwithawashcloth.Shekeptrubbinguntilshehurtontheoutsideasmuchasshedidontheinside.

When Joy came out of the bathroom, Janine had picked up the

livingroomsothat thenewspaperswerestackedneatlyandthedirtydishesremovedtothesink.ShetoldJoytositdownandcarriedovertwosteamingmugsof tea.Eachbagwastaggedwithaninspirationalquote. “May this day bring you peace, tranquillity, and harmony,”Janineread.Sheblewonthesurfaceofthetea.“Well.Screwthat.”

Joy lookedatherowntag. “Yourchoiceswillchange theworld.”She stared at the words until they swam. She felt a rolling wave ofrelief.

Theroomwaspainfullysilent.Janine felt it too.Shereached forthetelevisionremote.“Whatdoyouthinkisgoingon?”

The picture blinked to life on the last channel Joy had beenwatching,whichnowshowedtheexterioroftheclinic.Itwasdark,butpolice lights were still flashing. A reporter said something about aSWATteam,andtherewasagrainyphotoofamarksmanonadistantroof. Joy felt as if she were being suffocated. “Turn it off,” she saidroughly.

Thescreenwentblank.Janinesettheremotedownbetweenthem.“I just moved here. I don’t really know anyone in Mississippi,” shesuddenlyadmitted.“Except,youknow…thepeopleIwaswith.”

“Whatdowedonow?”Joyblurtedout.

“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Tomorrow.Imean,howdowegobacktonormal?”Joyshookherhead.“Nothing’snormal.”

“Iguesswefakeit,”Janinesaid.“Tillweforgetwe’refaking.”Sheshrugged.“I’llprobablyjustdowhatIdidbefore.Holdsigns.Pray.”

Joy’sjawdropped.“You’llkeepprotesting?”

Janine’sglanceslidaway.“Whoknowsiftheclinicwillevenopenagain.”

Ifafterallthat,otherwomendidn’thavetheopportunitydowhatJoyhaddone,thenwhyhadshelivedthroughitatall?

Joyfeltasurgeofheat.HowcouldJaninenotrecognizethatitwasrhetoricspoutedbyherselfandhercroniesthatledtoviolence?WhentheypassedjudgmentonpeoplelikeJoy,itgavelicensetootherstodoit.Andthistime,thepersonwhohaddoneithadbeenwieldingagun.

“Inspiteofwhathappenedtoday,”Joysaid,incredulous,“youstill

thinkyou’reright?”

Janinelookedherintheeye.“Icouldaskyouthesamething.”

Joystaredatthisotherwoman,whobelievedthepolaroppositeofwhat she believed, yet with the same strength of conviction. Shewondered if theonlyway anyofus can findwhatwe stand for is byfirstlocatingwhatwestandagainst.

“Maybeyou’dbettergo,”Joysaidtightly.

Janine stood up. She looked around, located her knapsack, andheadedsilentlyforthedoor.

Joy closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch.Maybe therejustwasn’tanycommonground.

Didallbabiesdeservetobeborn?

Didallwomendeservetomakedecisionsabouttheirownbodies?

InwhatVenndiagramdidthoseoverlap?

Sheheardtheknobturn,andthenJanine’svoice.“Well,”shesaid,miffed,asifsheweretheonewhosemoralityhadbeenattacked.“Haveanicelife.”

Joywonderedhowyougetsomeoneyouthinkisblindtoseewhatyousee.

It certainly can’thappenwhenyou’re standingonopposite sidesofawall.

“Wait,” Joy said. She dug her hand into the pocket of hersweatpants.“CanIshowyousomething?”Shedidn’twaitforJaninetorespond. Instead she smoothed out the ultrasound picture on thecoffeetable.Herfingerstouchedthewhiteedges.

SheheardJanineclosethedoorandwalkbacktowardthecouch.Janinelookedatthegrainyimage,bearingwitness.

“It’s—itwasaboy,”Joymurmured.

Janinesankdownbesideher.“Idon’tknowwhatyouwantmetosay.”

Joyknewthiswasn’ttrue;thatJaninehadadozenresponses,allofwhichwerevariantsof thefact thatJoyhadmadeherchoice; thatshedidn’tdeservetogrieve.ShewantedtotellJaninethatyes,shehad

gotten what she wanted, but she also felt the pain of loss, and theywerenotmutuallyexclusive.

“Maybeneitherofusshouldsayanything,”Joysuggested.

JaninecoveredJoy’shandwithherown.Shedidn’trespond.

Shedidn’thaveto.

Shejusthadtobehere,onewomanholdingupanother.

—

ALMOST THREE HOURS NORTH OF the hostage standoff, in Oxford,Mississippi, a teenage girl curled on her side in bed at BaptistMemorialHospital,wonderinghowshecouldfeelso incrediblyalonein a world so crowded with people. Beth rolled over when the dooropened—herheartswellingwithhopethatmaybeherfatherhadcomebacktosaythathewassorry,thatheforgaveher,thatshecouldhaveasecondchance.Butitwasonlyhercourt-appointedlawyer.

Bethglancedat thepoliceguardat thedoor,and thenatMandyDuVille.“Didyoufindmydad?”sheasked.

Mandy shook her head, but that wasn’t really an answer. Bethknew(becauseMandyhadtoldher)thatshecouldn’tandwouldn’ttalkto her client while the policemanwas present because there was noclient-attorney confidentiality.Whichwas really just aswell, becauseBethdidn’tneedanymorebadnews.Thechargesweren’tgoingtobedropped.Theprosecutorwanted to rideBeth’s sad little storyall thewaytoElectionDay.Bethwasonlycollateraldamage.

Andwhatwas her crime, exactly? Shewas a seventeen-year-oldgirlwhodidn’twanttobeamother,andbecauseofthat,shewasgoingto losewhatwas leftofherchildhood.Shehad tried togeta judicialwaiver because she knew her father would never sign the consentpapers—even though by the time she had the baby, she’d be overeighteen.Buthercourtdatehadbeenpostponedfortwoweeks,andbythenitwouldhavebeentoolateforhertohaveanabortioninthestateofMississippi.She’dbeenforcedtotakedesperatemeasures.

Maybeif therewerefewer laws,Beththought,shewouldn’thavehad to break them. Given how hard it was for her to get a legalabortion,whyshouldshebepunishedforhavinganillegalone?

Suddenlyrealityknockedthebreathoutofher.Itfeltliketheone

timeher fatherhad takenher to see theoceanon theGeorgia coast.Beth had been a kid. She had run toward the waves with her armswide,onlytofindherselftumbledheadoverheelsandnearlydrowned.Herfatherhadpluckedheroutofthesurfbeforeshecouldbewashedaway.

Whowasgoingtorescuehernow?

“I’mgoingtojail,”Bethsaid,hervoicesmall.Shewasstartingtoseethatnothingshehaddone,nothingMandyDuVillecoulddo,wasgoing to untangle her from thismess. It was like when you tried toeraseamistake,andwoundupripping thepaper instead. “I’mreallygoingtojail.”

Mandylookedattheofficer,whohadturnedaroundtofacethem.Sheraisedafingertoherlips,remindingBethnottospeakinfrontofthecop.

Bethstartedtocry.

Shecurledherkneesuptoherchest,feelingemptyinside.Shewasahusk,ashell,arind.Thiswashowbadlyshehadfuckedup.Shehadgotten rid of the baby, true, but she had also somehow excised herabilitytofeel.Maybetakingawaythelatterwastheonlywayshecouldhave takenaway the former.Ormaybe thiswas fate: if theonly loveyou had ever known was conditional, so was the absence of it. Shewouldrotawaybehindbars,missedbynoone.Evenifherfathercameback, it wouldn’t be to apologize. It would be to tell Beth howdisappointedhewasinher.

Afteramoment, she felt arms foldingher close.Mandywas softandsmelledofpeaches.HerbraidstickledBeth’scheek.Thisiswhatitcouldhavebeenlike,Beththought.

Aftera fewminutes,hersobsbecamehiccups.Beth laydownonthe pillow, her fingers still threaded with Mandy’s. “You should getsomerest,”herlawyersaid.

Bethwantedtofallasleep.Shewantedtopretendthattodayhadnot happened.Well, no. Shewanted to pretend that today had gonedifferently. “Can you stay here?” Beth asked. “I don’t have—I don’thaveanyoneelse.”

Mandymethergaze.“Youhaveme,”shesaid.

—

ASHUGHSTARTEDWALKINGTOthefrontdooroftheclinic,hethoughtofthe day that Wren was born. He and Annabelle had been at homewatchingaHarryPottermarathonwhenhercontractionsstarted.Theyweregettingcloserandcloser,butAnnabellerefusedtoleaveuntilTheChamber of Secrets was over. Her water broke during the credits.Hughdrovelikeamaniactothehospital, leavingthecarinaloadingzone, and got hiswife settled on the deliveryward. Shewas alreadydilated93⁄4centimeters,whichAnnabellesawasasign.

I’mnotnamingherHermione,Hughhadsaid,afterthebirth.

I’mnotnamingherafteryourmother,Annabellehadcountered.

(Evenbackthen,theyhadfought.)

The nurse, who had been following this conversation, opened awindow.Maybeweallneedalittlefreshair,shesuggested, justasabird darted through. It fluttered to the lip of the bassinetwhere thebabywassleeping.Thebirdturneditshead,fixedabrighteyeonher.

Now,that’sasign,Hughsaid.

Wrenwastheverybestthingthathadeverhappenedtohim.

Heboughtherherfirstbra.Heletherpainthisnails.Hetoldherkidswereassholeswhenshewasn’tinvitedtoapopulargirl’sbirthdayparty,andthenspitefullygavethatgirl’smotheraticketthenextdayforjaywalking.

EveryAugusttheyhikedtothehighestspotinJackson,waitingtoseethePerseids,themeteorshowerthatmadetheskylooklikeitwasweeping. They’d pull an all-nighter, talking about everything fromwhichPowerRangerwasexpendable tohowyoufindthepersonyouwanttospendyourlifewith.

Hugh had had trouble with that one. In the first place, hisjudgmenthadbeenoff;AnnabellenowlivedinFrancewithaguytenyearsherjunior,amasterbakerwhocompetedintheBreadOlympics,as if thatwas a thing. In the second place, the person hewanted tospend his life with had been placed into his arms by a labor anddeliverynursefifteenyearsago.

Now,Hughglancedoverhis shoulder.CaptainQuandt tiltedhishead,speakingintoaradio.“Ifyoudon’tgethimtomeetyoupartway,mysniperscan’tgetacleanshot,”hesaidtoHugh.

“Notmyproblem,”Hughreplied,movingforward.

“Hugh!”

Hestopped.

“Youdon’thavetobeahero,”Quandtsaidquietly.

Hughmethisgaze.“I’mnot.I’mafather.”

He squared his shoulders and started toward the clinic door.Behind him, the air was stale with heat; the only sound was thebuzzingofmosquitoes.

Heknocked.Amomentpassed,andthenhecouldhearfurniturescrapingthefloor.

Thedoorswungopen,andtherestoodWren.“Daddy,”shecried,and she took a step toward him, but was jerked back inside. Hughreluctantly torehis eyesaway fromhisdaughter to look, for the firsttime,atthemanhehadbeentalkingtoforfivehours.

GeorgeGoddardwasslight,aroundfive-ten.Hehadafiveo’clockshadowandabandagewrappedaround thehand thatwasholdingagun to Wren’s temple. His eyes were so light they appearedtransparent.“George,”Hughsaidevenly,andGoddardnodded.

Hughwasawareofthepulseleapinginhisneck.Hetriedtokeephimself calm, to not grabWren and run,which could be disastrous.“Whydon’tyoustepouthere,andlethergo?”

Georgeshookhishead.“Showmeyourweapon.”

Hughhelduphishands.“Don’thaveone.”

Theothermanlaughed.“YouthinkI’manidiot?”

Afterahesitation,Hughreacheddownandhikeduphispantsleg,revealingthepistolhehadstrappedthere.KeepinghiseyesonGeorgetheentiretime,hetuggedtheweaponfreeandhelditofftotheside.

“Dropit,”Georgeordered.

“LetgoofherandIwill.”

For a beat, nothing happened. June bugs paused midflight, thebreezedied,Hugh’sheartmissedastitch.ThenGeorgeshovedWrenforward. Hugh caught her up with his left arm, leaving the rightoutstretchedwiththeweapondangling.“It’sokay,”hewhisperedinto

hisdaughter’shair.

Shesmelledoffearandsweat,thewayshehadwhenshewaslittleandwokeupfromanightmare.Hedrewback,threadingthefingersofhisfreehandwithoneofhers.Ontheedgeofherleftpalmwasalittleblackstar,inkedlikeatattooatthejunctureofherthumbandpointer.Itfeltlikeasign.“Wren.”Hughsmiledather,asbesthecould.“Goonnow.Walktotheofficersunderthattent.”

Sheturnedandlookedatthecommandcenter,thenbackathim.Sherealizedinthatmomentthathewasn’tcomingwithher.“Daddy,no.”

“Wren.Letmefinishthis.”

She took a breath, andnodded.Very slowly, she started to backaway from him, toward the tent. None of the other officers steppedforward to swoopher to safety, as they had the other hostages. Thiswas on Hugh’s order. Before, George had been hidden behind thesecurity of his door, but now, he’d feel vulnerable. Seeing anapproachingcopmighttriggerhim,makehimshootinself-defense.

WhenWrenwasa fewstepsaway,George spoke. “Putdown thegun.”HetookhisownfirearmandpointeditatHugh’schest.

Hugh bent, slowly letting the weapon slip from his fingers. “Allright,George,”hesaid.“Whatdoyouwanttodo,now?Yourcall.”

Hesawthegunman’seyesflickeraroundtherooftops,andprayedthatifthesniperswereinposition,theywerewellconcealed.

“Youtoldmeyou’ddoanythingforyourdaughter,”Georgesaid.

Hughfelthisthroattighten.HedidnotwantGeorgetalkingaboutWren. He didn’t even want him thinking about her. He risked aperipheralglance;shewasmaybehalfwaytothecommandcenter.

“Youkeepsayingwe’renotthatdifferent,”Georgecontinued.“Butyoudon’treallybelievethat.”

NomatterwhatHughhadsaidtogainGeorge’strust,hewaswellaware that there was and always would be a seminal differencebetweenthem,andithadtodowithmorality.Hughwouldnevertakealifebecauseofhisownbeliefs.

HerealizedwithatinyshockthatexactconvictionwaswhathadbroughtGeorgeheretoday.

“George, this can still end well,” Hugh said. “Think of yourdaughter.”

“She’llneverlookatmethesameafterthis.Youdon’tgetit.”

“Thenmakemeunderstand.”

He expectedGeorge to reach for him, to pull him back into theclinic,wherehecouldbarricadethedooranduseHughasabargainingchip.Orkillhim.

“Allright,”Georgesaid.

Thetwilightwasbleeding,itwastheseambetweendayandnight.Hugh saw the gunmove.He reached for his pistol, sheer habit, andrememberedthathewasunarmed.

ButGeorge’sgunwasnolongerpointedatHugh.ItwasaimedatWren—still twenty feet shy of the tent—a moving target Hugh hadarrogantlybelievedhecouldkeepsafe.

—

WHEN HIS DAUGHTER WAS YOUNGER, George had read to her from theBible, instead of fairy tales. Some stories, he knew, just don’t havehappy endings. Better for Lil to understand that love was aboutsacrifice.Thatwhatlookedlikecarnage,fromadifferentangle,mightbeacrusade.

Weareallcapableofthingsweneverimagined.

Well, Detective, he thought. You asked me to make youunderstandandIdid.YouandI,we’renotthatdifferent.

Not the hero and the villain, not the pro-life activist and theabortiondoctor,notthecopandthekiller.Wearealldrowningslowlyinthetideofouropinions,obliviousthatwearetakingonwatereverytimeweopenourmouths.

Hewishedhecouldtellhisdaughterthatherealizedthis,now.

Hepulledthetrigger.

A

Fourp.m.

FTERHOURSOFTALKINGWITHTHESHOOTEROVERASECURELINE,Hughhad been lulled into complacency. He had mistakenly assumed

thatitwaspossibletoreasonwithamadman.

But then there had been another gunshot, and Hugh’s onlythoughtwasofhisdaughter.

WhenWrenwastwo,hehadtakenheralongwhenhewentdowntofixalittledockthatsatoutbehindBex’sproperty,ontheedgeofaweed-chokedpond.Hewashammeringtreatedwoodintoplacewhileshe sat on the grass, playingwith a toyher aunthad givenher.Oneminuteshehadbeenlaughing,chatteringtoherself,andthenexttherewasasplash.

Hughhadn’teventhought.Hejumpedoffthedockintothewater,whichwassomurkyandcloggedthathecouldn’tseeafootinfrontofhim.His eyesburnedashe struggled to spot anything thatmightbeWren. He dove over and over, his hands outstretched and spinningthrough weeds, until finally he brushed against something solid. Hebroke through thewaterwithWrenwrapped inonearm, laidheronthedock,fittedhismouthagainsthers,andbreathedforheruntilshechokeduptheswamp.

HughhadscreamedatWren,who’dburstintotears.Buthisangerwasmisdirected.Hewasfuriousathimself,forbeingstupidenoughtotakehiseyesoffofher.

There had been a gunshot, and Hugh was in that muddy pondagain,blindlytryingtosavehisdaughter,anditwasallhisfault.

Therehadbeenagunshot,onethatstruckhissister,andhehadn’tbeenthere.

There was a gunshot, and what if that meant he was too late,again?

CaptainQuandtwas immediatelyathisside. “McElroy,”hesaid.“There’sactivegunfire.Youknowtheprotocol.”

Theprotocolwastoengageratherthanwaitandsufferthelossofmorevictims.Itwasalsoriskyashell.Whengunmenfeltthreatened,theystartedpanicking,firingatrandom.

HadhebeenQuandt,hemightwellhavemadethesamecall.ButHugh hadn’t yet confessed to Quandt that his own childwas inside.Thatthiswasn’trandomatall.

There had been other hostage situations that had becomebloodbathsbecausethelawenforcementagenciesweretooaggressive.In 2002 Chechen rebels went into a theater, taking hundreds ofhostages and even killing two; Russian forces decided to pump anuntested gas inside to end the standoff. They killed thirty-nineterroristsbutalsooverahundredhostages.

WhatifthathappenedwhenQuandtwentin?

“Itwasn’tactivegunfire,”Hughsaid,tryingtobuytime.“Itwasasingleshot.It’spossiblethatthethreatneutralizedhimself.”

“Thenthere’szerorisk,”Quandtpointedout.“Let’sgo.”Hedidn’twaitforHughtorespond,justturnedonhisheeltoorganizehisteam.

There had been several moments in Hugh’s experience thatchanged his life. The day he asked Annabelle out. The night thatsuicidalkidontheroof turnedandgaveHughhishand.WhenWrentook her first breath. This would, he knew, be another of thosemoments:theonethatendedhiscareer.

“No,” Hugh said, to Quandt’s back. “My daughter’s one of thehostages.”

TheSWATcommanderturnedslowly.“What?”

“I didn’t know at first. I found out after I got here,” Hughexplained.“ButIdidn’t—Ididn’tstepdown.Icouldn’t.”

“You’rerelievedofyourposition,”Quandtsaidflatly.

“Onlymychiefcandothat,”Hughsaid.“AndI’mintoodeepnowwiththehostagetakertowalkaway.I’msorry.Iknowtherules.Iknowit’s a conflict of interest. But my God, Captain—nobody has greaterincentive for this to end well than I do. You understand that, don’tyou?”

“Iunderstandthatwhenyouliedtome,tothechief,toeveryone—youknewexactlywhatyouweredoing.”

“No. If I knewwhat Iwas doing, she’d be herewithme.”Hughcleared his throat and forced himself to look the commander in theeye.“Don’tmakemydaughterpayformystupidity.Please,”hebegged.“It’smykid.”

He was underwater again, and flailing in the weeds. He wasdrowning.

Quandt stared him down. “Everyone in there,” he said, “issomebody’skid.”

—

BEX STARED AT THE FLUORESCENT lights overhead in the hospital’soperatingroom,wonderingifshewasgoingtodie.

Shewasworried.Notforherself,butforWren,fortherestofthepeople in the clinic. And of course for Hugh, who shouldered thisburden.Hewouldblamehimselfforanythingthatwentwrongtoday.Some men wear responsibility and some are worn by it; Hugh hadalwaysbeentheformer.Evenatherfather’sfuneral,whenHughhadbeenjusteight,heinsistedonshakingthehandofeveryonewhocametogrieve.Hewas the last to leave thegravesite,walkingback to theparking lotwith theminister.Bexhad settledher sobbingmother inthecarandgoneback togetHugh. “I’m themanof thehousenow,”he’dtoldher,andsoshehadspenttherestofherlifewalkingbehindhim,tryingtoinconspicuouslytakeawaysomeoftheloadhecarried.

It waswhy she hadmoved back home,when hermother’s griefmadeherturntoabottleandneglectHugh.

It was why she made sure that there was a female presence inWren’slifeafterAnnabellewasgone.

ItwaswhyshehadbroughtWrentotheclinic.

The anesthesiologist leaned over her. “You might feel a littleburning,”hesaid,“butthenyou’regoingtohavethebestnapofyourlife.”

WhenHughwaslittle,hehadneverwantedtogotosleepatnight.Sheusedtohavetocreatetwoalternativesthatgavehimachoiceandthe sense he was in control: Do you want to walk upstairs to yourroom, or do youwantme to carry you?Do youwant to brush yourteeth first, orwashyour face?Either scenario ended inbedtime.Butthenhebegantogetwiser.Hewouldaskhertoreadthreebooks,and

shewouldcounterwithone,andhewouldlaughandtellherhe’dbeenhopingfortwoallalong.

Evenatfive,hehadbeenanegotiator.

Whentheanesthesiatookeffect,Bexwassmiling.

—

JANINECOULDFEELTHEGHOSTS.Theyweresitting inher lapand inherarms and pulling at the hem of her dress. This building was full ofbabieswithoutmothers.

She had come to get information. Intelligence. Something thatcould be revealed online, theway LilaRose had done, to expose therealityof thesemurder centers.Shewasnever supposed toget stuckhere.

JaninehadgrownuponthesouthwestsideofChicago,whereyoucame not from neighborhoods, but from parishes. She was from St.Christina, and she knew from the time shewas a young child that ababywasababythemomentitwasconceived.Attheveryleast,itwasahumanpersoninprogress.

She was not unrealistic. She understood that abstinence wasn’talways possible, that birth control sometimes failed, but if a coupledecidedtoengageinanactivitythatcouldpotentiallycreatealife,theyshould also be prepared to accept a change in their own lives. Sheknew,ofcourse,thatitwasn’tjustawomanwhowasresponsibleforapregnancy—althoughitwasthewomanwhohadtocarrythebabyfornine months. But nine months was a hiccup in the time line of awoman’slife.Anditwasn’tthechild’sfaultthatledtohimorherbeingconceived.Sowhyshouldhehavetopaywithhislife?

Janine had been told she was anti-woman. That she wasridiculous.Thatifshedidn’twantanabortion,shedidn’thavetohaveone.Butsheknewthat ifawomankilled thatsamebundleofcellsafewmonths later, therewouldn’tevenbeanargument.Shewouldbevilifiedandputinjailforlife.Theonlydifferencewasthecalendar.

Janine had been twelve when her mother conceived again, anaccident, at age forty-three. She remembered how her parents hadcomehomefromanappointmentwithtwonewbitsofknowledge:thebabywas a boy, and he had one extra chromosome. The doctor hadcounseledhermothertoterminatethepregnancy,becausethebaby’s

lifewouldbefullofdevelopmentalandhealthchallenges.

She’d been old enough to pick up on her parents’ fear. She hadGoogled Down syndrome. Half the kids who were born with Downsyndrome also needed heart surgery. They had increased chances ofdeveloping leukemia and thyroid problems. By age forty, many hadearly Alzheimer’s. And then there were other complications: earinfections, hearing loss, skin problems, bad vision, seizures,gastrointestinaldisorders.

Shebelievedshekneweverythingaboutherbabybrotherbeforehearrived.Butshedidn’tknowthatBenwouldhaveabellylaughthatmadeherstartlaughing,too.Orthathewouldbeticklishonhisrightfoot but not his left. She didn’t know that he wouldn’t go to sleepunlessJanine readhimexactly threebooks.Sheknew thathewouldmeetmilestoneslaterthanotherkids,thathemightneedhelp.Butshedidn’tknowhowmuchshewouldneedhim.

It wasn’t all rosy. There were blogs where parents talked abouthaving kids withUp syndrome, and how they’d been given an extrablessing fromGod in the form of that additional chromosome. Thatwas bullshit. It tookBen three years to be potty trained.Hewhinedwhen he was tired, like any other little brother. He was bullied inschool. One year, Ben had a surgery on Janine’s birthday, and herparents completely forgot to give her a cake, a party, a moment ofattention.

Atcollege,whenshewaspresidentof theStudents forLife club,shehadplentyofconversationsaboutthemoralquicksandofabortion,andsheusedherbrotherasanexample.Benmaynothavebeen thechildherparentshadexpected,buthewastheonetheygot.Havingachildisaterriblerisk,nomatterwhat.Youmighthaveahealthybabywho then gets a heart condition, diabetes, addicted to opioids. Youmightraiseakidwhogetsherheartbroken,whomiscarriesherownbaby,whosehusbanddies fightingoverseas. Ifwe aremeant to onlyhave children who never encounter difficulty in life, then no oneshouldbeborn.

Had Janine’s mother done what the doctor suggested at thatprenatal appointment, Ben would never have existed. She wouldn’thaveseen the triumphonhis facewhenhe finally learnedhowto tiehisownshoes,whenhebroughthomehisfirstfriendfromschool.Hewouldn’t have been there on the day her dog Galahad was hit by a

truck, the day everythingwent wrong, when no one couldmake herstopcryingandBenjustcrawledintoherarmsandhuggedher.

Now,JanineglancedatJoy,whowascurledsidewaysinherchair,herfaceburiedinherhands.Shewishedshehadbeenstandingatthefence todaywhen Joy came into the clinic to have her abortion. Shemighthavekeptherfrommakingthedecisionshehad.

ItwastoolateforJoy’sbaby.Butthatdidn’tmeanitwastoolateforJoy.

Janine satup a little straighter.EvenNormaMcCorvey changedhermind.ShehadbeenJaneRoeinRoev.Wade.Inthe1970s,whenshewastwenty-two,shefoundherselfpregnantforthethirdtime.ShelivedinTexas,whereabortionwasillegalunlessthemother’slifewasat risk. Her lawsuit went all the way to the Supreme Court, and ofcourse, you know how that turned out. She became an abortionadvocate,untilthenineties,whenshedidanabruptone-eighty.Fromthatmoment,allthewaytillshediedin2017,sheaskedtheSupremeCourttooverturntheirdecisiononhercase.

Whatledtoherchangeofopinion?Shewasbornagain.

Janinesmiledtoherself.

Bornagain.

Shedidn’t think itwas any coincidence that the term for lettingGodbackintoyourhearthad,atitscore,birth.

—

IZZYSATONTHEFLOORbesidethebodyofOliveLemay.Herhandswerestillshakingwiththeeffortoftryingtoresuscitatethewoman,butshehadknown that therewasn’t aprayer.Thegunhadgoneoff at closerange.Thebullethad torn through theolderwoman’sheart.EvenasIzzy had tried to stanch the flow of blood, she had felt Olive’s handcomeuptocoverhers.Shehadseenthefearinthewoman’seyes.

“Thatwasaverybravethingyoudid,”Izzywhisperedfiercely.

Oliveshookherhead.HereyesheldIzzy’s.

Sometimes,beinganursedoesn’tmatter.Beinghumandoes.

SoIzzyeasedupthepressureonOlive’schest.ShegrabbedOlive’shand with both of her own and she stared into the woman’s eyes,noddinginanswertothequestionthathadn’tbeenasked.

Shehadbeeninthisprofessionlongenoughtoknowthatpeoplesometimesseemedtoneedpermissionbeforetheyleftthisworld.

The first death she ever saw was when she had been a nursingstudent,andhadapatientwithmetastaticbreastcancer.Thewomanwas a former beauty queen, now in her fifties. She’d been in thehospital before for palliative care and for rehab after a pathologicalfracture.Butthistime,shehadcomebacktodie.

Onequietnight,afterherfamilyleft,Izzyhadsatdownbesidethesleeping woman. Her head was bald from the chemo; her face wasgaunt, and yet somehow it only served to make her features morearresting. Izzy stared at her, thinking of the woman she must havebeen,beforecancerateawayather.

Suddenly thewoman’s eyes blinked open, a lucid and lovely seagreen.“You’vecometogetme,haven’tyou?”shesaid,smilingsoftly.

“Ohno,”Izzyreplied.“You’renotgoingforanyteststonight.”

The woman moved her head imperceptibly. “I’m not talking toyou,honey,”shesaid,hergazefixedsomewhereoverIzzy’sshoulder.

Amomentlater,thewomandied.

Izzy always wondered what she would have seen, had she beenbraveenoughtoturnaroundthatnight.

Shewonderedifshewouldbeshot,likeOlive.

Shewondered how long it would be until an autopsywas done,andsomeonefoundoutshewaspregnant.

Shewondered, ifher lifeended today,whetheranyonewouldbewaitingforherontheotherside.

—

IFHEHADNOTBEENgivendetentionbythenunsinseventhgrade,LouieWardmightneverhavebecomeanobstetrician.Intheschoollibrary,he picked up a book thatwas lying on the table—a biography of theReverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Out of sheer boredom Louiestarted to read. He didn’t put the book down until he was finished.Louiewasconvincedthatthismanwasspeakingdirectlytohim.

He began to read everything he could that the reverend hadwritten.Life’smostpersistentandurgentquestion,Dr.Kinghadsaid,iswhatareyoudoingforothers?Hereadthosewordsandthoughtof

hismama,bleedingoutonthefloor.

Likehismentor,Louiewantedtobeadoctor,butadifferentkind:anob-gyn,becauseofhismother.Heworkedhardenoughtogetafullscholarshiptocollege,andthenanothertomedicalschool.

Whenhewasaresident,hecameincontactwithmultiplewomenwhohadunplanned,unwantedpregnancies.AsapracticingCatholic,hebelievedlifestartedatconception,sohereferredthesepatientstoother doctors, other places.Much later in his career he would learnthat although 97 percent of doctors had encountered a patient whowantedtoterminateapregnancy,only14percentperformedabortionsthemselves. When the gap was that great, it was not like abortionsstopped.Theyjustgotdoneunsafely.

OneSunday,Louie’spriestwasgivingahomilyabouttheparableof theGoodSamaritan in theGospelofLuke.A traveler, beatenandleftfordeadonthesideoftheroad,waspassedbyapriestandaLevite—neitherofwhomstopped.Finally,aSamaritanofferedhishelp,eventhoughhistoricallySamaritansandJewswereenemies.

On the day before Martin Luther King, Jr., was killed, he hadtalkedaboutthatparable.HeconsideredwhythepriestandtheLevitemighthavewalkedpast thebeatenman—maybetheythoughthewasfaking;maybetheywereworriedfortheirownsafety.Butmostofall,hemused, the reason theypassedwasbecause theywere thinkingofwhat would happen to themselves if they stopped—not what wouldhappentothatmaniftheydidn’t.

Louieknewinthatinstant,hehadtobetheSamaritan.Somanyofthe women he met who were seeking abortions were, like him,southerners of color. These were the women who had raised him.These were his neighbors, his friends, his own mother. If he didn’tinterrupthisownjourneytohelpthemwiththeirs,whowould?

ItwastheonetrulymiraculousmomentofDr.LouieWard’slife.

At that moment Louie realized why his mama had gone to seeSebby Cherise. It wasn’t because she was having the child of aprominentmarriedwhiteman.Itwasbecauseshehadbeenprotectingthechildshealreadyhad,attheexpenseoftheoneshehadn’twantedto conceive. This was a variation on a theme he had heard frompatients: I have a child with a disability; I don’t have the time toparentanotherone.Icanbarelyfeedmyson;whatwillIdowitha

secondbaby?Ialreadyworkthreejobsandtakecareofmyfamily—thereisn’tanymoreofmetogoaround.

So although Louie still went to Mass like clockwork, he alsobecameanabortionprovider.He flewseveral timesamonth toofferhis services at women’s clinics. The only person who didn’t actuallyknowwhathedidforalivingwashisgrandmama.

She was in her nineties by the time Louie went back home toconfess.Hetoldherabouttherunnerwhohadworkedherwholelifetosecure a spot on theOlympic team, and then foundherself pregnantafteracondombroke.Hetoldheraboutthewomanwholearned,inanopioidtreatmentprogram,thatshewastwelveweeksalong.

Hetoldheraboutaladyfromasmall,narrow-mindedplacewhohadbeen soblindedby the sunof a respectedmarriedman that shebelievedhewouldsupportherandclaimtheirchildashisown,onlytolearn thatwasn’t how theworldworked.They both knewwhoLouiewas talking about. Grandmama, he said. I think Jesus wouldunderstandwhyIdowhatIdo.Ihopeyoucan,too.

Asheexpected,hisgrandmamastartedtocry.Ilostmybabyandmygrandbaby,shesaidafteralongmoment.Maybenowsomeotherwomanwon’t.

In fact the only objection his grandmama had had to his careerwasthatLouiemightbekilledbyananti-abortionactivist.Louieknewthat his name had been published on a website, along with otherdoctors who performed abortions, with information about where helivedandworked.HehadknownGeorgeTiller, adoctorwho’dbeenmurdered while he was at church. Dr. Tiller had been wearing aprotectivevestatthetime,butthegunmanhadshothiminthehead.

Louierefusedtoputonavest.Thewayhesawit, theminutehedid,theyhadwon.Andyet,everymorninghehadtorunthegauntletofprotesters.Hewouldsitinhiscarforanextraminute,takingadeepbreath, steeling himself for the vitriol and the love bombers—We’repraying for you,Dr.Ward.Have a blessed day!Hewould think ofGeorgeTillerandDavidGunnandJohnBrittonandBarnettSlepian,allkilledbyactivistswhowerenot satisfied to simply stand ina lineandhurlinsults.

Louie would count to ten, say an Our Father, and then in onesmoothmovement,gatherhisbriefcaseandexit thecar.He’dhit the

power lock while he was walking, face forward, eyes on the ground,refusingtoengage.

Mostly.

There was one anti, a middle-aged white man, who repeatedlycalledout,“SinfulNegrobabykiller!”Louiehadignoredhim,untilonedayheyelled,“DoIhavetocallyouaniggertogetariseoutofyou?”

That—well.ThatstoppedLouiedeadinhistracks.

“Whatpartofme ismostupsettingtoyou?”Louieaskedcalmly.“The fact that I am African American? Or the fact that I performabortions?”

“Theabortions,”themansaid.

“Thenwhatdoesmyracehavetodowithanything?”

Theprotestorshrugged.“Itdoesn’t.Ijustthrowthatin.”

Louiealmosthadtoadmiretheman’sscorchedearthtactics.

There was only one reason he got out of his car every damnmorning: thewomenhe treated,whohad towalk through that samegauntlet.Howcouldhebeanylessbravethantheywere?

Theantiswantedthewomenwhochoseabortionstofeelisolated,the only people in the universe who had ever made such a selfishdecision.What Louiewanted, for everywomanwhowalked throughthe doors of the Center, was to make her understand she was notalone, andneverwould be. Themost ardent antis didn’t realize howmanywomentheyknewwho’dhadanabortion.Wipeawaythestigmaand all you were left with was your neighbor, your teacher, yourgroceryclerk,yourlandlady.

He imaginedwhat it felt like for them—tohavemadeadecisionthatcameatacolossalemotionalandfinancialcost—andthentohavethatdecisioncalledintoquestion.Nottomentiontheimplicationthattheywerenotcapableofmanagingtheirownhealthcare.Wherewerethe protesters at cancer centers, for example, urging chemotherapypatients to steer clearof the risksof toxins?Womenwere capableoftakingaspiriniftheyhadaheadache,andtheintrinsicriskofaspirinwas far greater than that of any of the abortion medications thatcurrentlyexisted.Ifawomanchoseamedicationabortion,whydidthemifepristonehave to be taken in front of a doctor, as if shewere an

inpatientinapsychiatricwardwhocouldn’tbereliedontoswallowapill?

Louiebelievedthatthosewhitemenwiththeirsignsandsloganswere not really there for the unborn, but there for the women whocarriedthem.Theycouldn’tcontrolwomen’ssexualindependence.Tothem,thiswasthenextbestthing.

Louie shiftedand criedout aspain stabbed throughhis leg.Thetourniquethadslowed thebleeding,until theshooterhad—ina fitofpique—kickedhimhardinthespotwherethebullethadentered.

It was hell being a physician but being too injured to treat theothers who’d been hurt. That had fallen to the other medicalprofessionaltrappedhere—thenurse,Izzy.Hehadn’tworkedwithherbefore, but that wasn’t unprecedented. Vonita, the clinic owner,employedarotatingparadeofhealthcareprofessionalsbraveorstupidenoughtoshowupeverydayinspiteofthethreats.

Hademployed.Pasttense.

Heclosedhiseyes,fightingthefeelingsthatroseinhim.

Shehadn’tbeentheonlycasualty.Izzyhadtried—desperatelyandfruitlessly—to save the life of Olive, the older woman. This was truecollateral damage: clearly a woman in her late sixties wasn’t at theclinictoterminateapregnancy,butshehadstillbeenonthereceivingendoftheshooter’srage.Izzynowdrewacottondrapeoverthebody.At Louie’smoan of pain she turned to check the binding aroundhisthigh.“I’mallright,”hesaid,tryingtogethertostopfussing,whentohissurpriseshedid.Sheboltedafewfeettotheleftandthrewupinatrashcan.

One of the other women—his last patient, Joy (formerly fifteenweeks along andnow, Louie thoughtwith satisfaction,un-pregnant)handed Izzy a tissue fromaboxona table in thewaiting room.Theshooter looked at Izzy in disgust, but didn’t speak.Hewas too busytendingtohisowninjury.IzzywipedhermouthandthenreturnedherattentiontoLouie’sthigh.“I’mthatbadoff,huh?”hesaidwryly.

Shelookedupathim,hercheeksflushed.“No,sir.Idon’tthinkhecausedanymajordamagewhenhekickedyou.Anyadditionalmajordamage,”sheamended.

Louie looked down at her hands, pressing gently around the

wound.Ithurtlikehell.“Howfaralongareyou?”heasked.

Hewaiteduntilshelookedupathim.“Howdidyouknow?”

Louieraisedaneyebrow.

“Twelveweeks,”Izzysaid.

Hewatchedherhandstealtoherabdomen,herpalmashield.

“You’re gonna get out of here,” he promised. “You and yourpartneraregoingtohaveabeautifulbouncingbaby.”

Shesmiled,butitdidn’treachhereyes.

Louie thought of all the times he’d administeredwhat he called“verbicaine”—justchattingtoeasethewomenwhoweresotenseaboutwhatwasgoing tohappen.Hewouldask if awomanmadeher gritssweet or savory. If she’d listened to Beyoncé’s latest album. Whatsorority shebelonged to.Hepridedhimself onbeing able to get anywoman relaxed, while he calmly and professionally performed theprocedure.Whatheheardmostoftenfromhispatientswas“Youmeanyou’realreadyfinished?”

ButhisreassurancehadnotworkedonIzzy.

Izzydidn’tbelievehimwhenhe said shewasgoing togetoutofhere.

Because,frankly,neitherdidhe.

—

JOYHADTOLDONLYONEpersonaboutherpregnancy—herbestfriend,awaitressattheDepartureLounge,amartinibarintheJacksonairport.Rosie had been the one who stood beside her in the ladies’ room,countingdownatimeronherphone,whiletheywatchedthelittleplussignappearonthestick.“Whatareyougoingtodo?”Rosiehadasked,andJoyhadn’tanswered.

Aweeklater,shemadeanappointmentattheCenter.Thatsamedayshe toldRosieshehadmiscarried.ThewayJoy figured, thiswasjust oneminor inaccuracy, a small erroneous footnote. The outcomewouldbethesame.

Even though she knew Rosie would have driven her for herprocedure,Joywantedandneededtodoitalone.Shehadbeenstupidenoughtogetherselfintothismess;shewouldbesmartenoughtoget

herselfout.

The first night that he came into the bar, Joy had noticed himrightaway.He’dbeentall,lean,andwearingasuitthatfitbeautifully;his hair was gray at the temples. Joy had looked at his hands—youcould tell a lot about a person from their hands—andhiswere long-fingered, strong. He looked a little bit like President Obama, ifPresidentObamahadbeensosadthathesoughtrefugeinthebottomofabucketofginmartinis.

WhenJoycameonduty,itwasthelateshift,andshewastheonlystaffinthelounge—itwascheapertotrainthewaitressestomixdrinksandlockupforthenightthantopayadditionalemployees.SherefilledthenutsforagaycoupledrinkingNegronisandprintedoutthetabforawomanwhoseflightwasbeingcalled.Thenshewentovertotheman,whoseeyeswereclosed.“CanIgetyouarefill?”

Whenheglancedupather,itwaslikelookingintoamirror.

Onlysomeonewhohasbeenthere—trappedinaninvisibleprison,desperate toescape—canrecognize thatexpression inanother.Whenhenodded,Joybroughthimanotherdrink.Andanother.Threemorecustomers came andwent, while she kept an eye on theman at thehigh-top. She knew he wasn’t in the mood to talk; she had been acocktail waitress long enough to read those clues. There were somepeople who wanted to pour out their troubles as you poured theirspirits. There were some who texted furiously on their phones,avoidingeyecontact.Therewerethehandsyones,whograbbedherassasshewalkedbyandpretendeditwasanaccident.Butthismanonlywantedtolosehimself.

Whenhehadbeenthereforthreehoursshestoodbesidehistable.“Idon’tmeantobotheryou,”Joysaid,“butwhen’syourflight?”

Heknockedbackhisdrinkpastthefenceofhisteeth.“Itlanded.Fourhoursago.”

She wondered if Mississippi was his starting point or hisdestination.Eitherway,therewassomethingoutsidethisbuildingthathecouldn’tface.

Whenitcametimetocloseup,hepaidwithcashandgaveheratipequaltotheamountofthebill.“CanIgetyouacab?”sheasked.

“Can’tIstayhere?”

“Nope.”Joyshookherhead.“What’syourname?”

“Can’ttellyou,”heslurred.

“Why?YouintheCIA?”

“No,ma’am,”hesaid. “But this isnotappropriatebehavior forarepresentativeofthecourt.”

So hewas a lawyer, Joy thought.Maybe he had lost a big case,something he’d been working on for months. Maybe his client hadperjured herself on the stand. There were a hundred scenarios, andshe’d seen them all on Law & Order. “Lucky for you, this isn’t acourtroom,”Joysaid.“Althoughthereisabar.”

He smiled at that. As she turned away to close out the cashregister,hetappedherarm.“Joe,”hesaidafteramoment.

Sheheldoutherhand.“Joy.”

Hepeeredatherwithpaleblueeyes,soarrestinginthefaceofaBlackman,somehistorical,genealogicalevolutionthatwasmorelikelyduetoamomentofforcethantopassion.Heworethescarsofhispastonhisface,Joyrealized.Justlikeshedid.

“Y’alldon’tlookveryjoyous,”heremarked.

That’swhenshemadethedecisionthatwouldchangethecourseof her life. Joy,whonever invited anyone to her apartment, decidedthat thismanneededtosleepoffhisdrink,andstartover tomorrow.Shedecidedtogivehimthesecondchancesheneverhadgotten.

Shelockedup,andbythen,Joewaspassedout,hischeekpressedto thepolishedwood.Rollingher eyes, she foundawheelchair threegatesdownandhalf-lifted,half-draggedJoeintoit.Thatwashowshegothimtohercar,too.Bythetimetheycollapsedinatumbledheaponto the couch in her living room, shewas sweating and exhausted.Joestartedtosnoreimmediately.

Whenshetriedtoextricateherself,though,hisarmstightenedonher.Hestrokedherhair.Hepulledheragainsthim.

Joydidnotevenknowhislastname,orwhathadbroughthimtoJackson.Butithadbeensolongsinceshe’dbeenheld,justheld.Andithadbeenevenlongersinceshe’dfeltneeded.Andsoagainstherbetterjudgment, she’d lain down to sleep with her head on his chest. Shemadehisheartbeatherlullaby.

It was sometime in the dead of night that she woke up to findherself being watched. They were pressed together on the narrowcouch and Joe’s eyeswere soberly focused on hers. “You are a goodperson,”hesaidafteramoment.

Hewouldn’tsaythatifheknewhowshehadgrownup,whatshehaddonetosurvive.

When he kissed her, Joy wanted to believe that her consciencewouldcauseheramomentofhesitation,yetthatwasn’ttrue.Shewason the Pill for period cramps, but even so, this was a stranger. Sheshouldhaveusedacondom.Instead,shegrabbedontohisshouldersandmadehimthecenterofherstorm.Andeventhoughitwasgriefhepouredintoher,itwasbetterthanbeingempty.

Afterward, they were both wide awake and dead sober. “Ishouldn’t have—” Joe began, but Joy didn’t want to hear it. Shecouldn’t stand being someone’s mistake again. She went to thebathroomandsplashedcoldwateronher face.Whenshecamebackout,Joewasdressedinhissuit.“IcalledanUber,”hesaid.“I,uh,gotyouraddressoffanenvelope.”Hehandedheranelectricbillthathadbeenonthecoffeetablewithyesterday’smail.Hegesturedawkwardlytowardthebathroom.“CouldI…?”

Joy nodded, stepping aside so that he could pass. She told himwherehemightfindaspirin,andhethankedherandclosedthedoor.

Joe returned to the living room. He was tall, she realized,somethingshehadnot seenwhenhewas slumpedovera table. “I’mnotthekindofpersonwho—”shestarted,butheinterrupted.

“I’veneverdonethisbefore.”

“Chalkituptothealcohol,”Joysaid.

“Temporaryinsanity.”

Acarhornhonkedtwice.

“Thank you, Miz Joy,” Joe said formally. “For showing me akindness.”

Joy felt like she had shown him her very soul, disfigured as itmight be. She looked away as he shrugged into his jacket andpresumablyoutofherlife.Assheshoweredthatmorning,shetriedtoconvinceherselfthatshewasn’ttheslutherfostermotherhadalways

called her; that shewas entitled to creature comfort; that theywereboth consenting adults. She went to her classes, and then to herafternoon job at the college library, and then to her shift at theDepartureLounge,where she foundherself looking for Joe althoughsheknewhewouldnotbethere.

Untilonenighthewas.Thatnight,hehadn’tgottendrunk.Hehadwaited until Joy’s shift was over, and accompanied her back to herapartment,wheretheymadeloveandthensharedapintoficecreaminbed.ShelearnedthatJoewasnotalawyer,butajudge.Hetoldherhowhisfavoritemomentsonthebenchwereadoptions,whenafosterkid got a permanent home.He stroked her hair and said he wishedshe’dbeenoneofthem.

He came back twomore times, admitting that hewas inventingbusiness in Jackson just to see her again. Joy couldn’t remember atime that someonehad run towardher, insteadof away.She lethimquiz her before one of her midterms and cook her a big breakfastbeforethetest.

Whenyouareusedtofendingforyourself,beingtakencareofisadrug.Joybecameaddicted.ShetextedJoefunnysignsshepassedonthe way to work: the Baptist church with the live Nativity thatadvertisedCOMESEEOURASSES; thegaily flashingSTOP—THREEWAY!; theTacoBellbillboardthatsaid INQUESOEMERGENCY,PRAYTOCHEESES.JoewroteherbackwithdailyDarwinAwards,anonymouslydescribingthememorable defendants in his courtroom. When he showed upunexpectedly,shecalledinsicktoworkatthelibrarysothatshecouldspendasmuchtimewithhimashecouldspare.Hewasfifteenyearsolder than she was, and sometimes she wondered if she wascompensatingforherlackofafather,butthenshewouldrealizetherewasnothingpaternalabouttheirrelationship.Sheguardedlybegantowonderifthiswasthemomentthatherterribleluckturned.

Sheshouldhaveknownbetter.

BiologyandevolutionandsocialmoresallowedJoeto leave;Joywastheonestuckwiththepregnancy.Eventhoughtherehadbeentwoof them in that bed. Joy realized, in retrospect, she should haveexpected this. Life had repeatedly served her a big old side dish ofmiserableanytimeshehadatasteofanythinggood.

Shehadonemore year of classes before she graduatedwithher

bachelor’s degree—a degree she had fought for by scrimping andsavingtopayforhercredits.Sheworkedtwojobsalreadyinordertomakethathappen.Therewasnotaworldinwhichshecouldtakecareofababy,too.

ThatwasJoy’sreasoning,asshesatinthebathroomatthelibraryandwhisperedanswerstothewomanwhoscheduledherappointmentattheCenter.

Name. Address. Date of birth. First day of your last menstrualperiod.Haveyoubeenpregnantbefore?

Haveyouhadanybleedingorspottingsinceyourlastperiod?

Areyoubreast-feedingnow?

Doyouhaveahistoryofuterineabnormalities?

Have you ever had asthma? Lung problems? Heart problems?Stroke?

And a dozen more questions, until: Is there anything else weshouldknowaboutyou?

Yes, Joy thought. I am pathologically unlucky. I’m perfectlyhealthy,exceptforthisonethingthatnevershouldhavehappenedtome.

The woman explained that because of the state of Mississippi’srequirements,anabortionwasatwo-dayprocedure.SheaskedifJoyhadhealthinsurance,andwhenshesaidno,thewomansaidMedicaiddidn’t cover thecost.Joywouldhave to scrape together$600, if shecould get here before she was eleven weeks, six days pregnant.Otherwise,thepricejumpedto$725tillthirteenweeks,sixdays.Afterthat,itwaseighthundredbucks,tillthesixteenthweek.Afterthat,theprocedurecouldn’tbedone.

Joywasalreadytenweekspregnant.

ShetextedJoe,sayingsheneededtospeaktohim,butshedidn’twanttotellhimovertextthatthishadhappened.Hedidn’tanswer.

Shedidsomemathinherhead,andscheduledanappointmentforaweekandahalfout.Butevenafterskippingclasstodoublehershiftsat the bar and the library, she didn’t have enough money by thedeadline. So she worked even harder, hoping to schedule anappointmentatthirteenweeks.Buthercarburetordiedandshehadto

pay for it or risk losing both her jobs. Before she knew it she wasfourteenandahalfweekspregnantandrunningoutoftime.ThistimeshecalledJoe,insteadoftexting.Whenawomananswered,shehungupthephone.

Joypawnedherlaptoptogetthecash,andrescheduled.

Ifshe’dbeenricher,shewouldn’thavebeenheretoday.

She wouldn’t have been getting an abortion when a madmanstormedtheCenterandstartedshooting.

Itwasjustanotherlayeroficingontheshitcakeofherlife.

Thismorning,whenshehadwalkedpasttheprotesters,oneofthewomenyelledthatJoywasselfish.Well,shewas.Shehadworkedherassofftogetsomewhereafteragingoutofthefostercareprogram.Shehadstruggledtopayforclassesatcollege.Shewasdeterminedtonotwindupdependentonanyone.

Thephone rang.Andrangand rang.Joy slantedhergaze to thegunman to see if he would pick it up, but he was struggling—unsuccessfully—totieabandagearoundhisbleedinghand.

It’scrazy,whatputsyouonacollisioncoursewithsomeone.Youmightwindupinanairport,drunk.Youmightbetoopoortopicktheappointmentdateyouwanted.Youmighthave thebad fortune tobeborntoanaddict,ortobebouncedfromfosterhometofosterhome.

Whathadbroughtthisshooterheretodaywithhisgun?Joyhadheardbitsofconversationwhenhewasonthephonewith thepoliceoutside.Hewantedrevengebecausehisowndaughterhadcomehereforanabortion.Apparentlyshehadn’ttoldhimwhatshewasgoingtodo.

Joy hadn’t told Joe, either, but then, he hadn’t returned hermessages.

“Whatthefuckisyourproblem?”Georgeasked,loomingoverher.

Startled, Joy pressed herself back against the chair. After whattheyhaddone tohim—afterwhat shehadseenhimdo toOlive—shewasterrified.Shefeltsweattrickledownherback.Shehadnotfeltthisway—paralyzed—sinceshewaseight.Backthenthevillainhadn’thadagun, just fists.Buthehadstill toweredoverher;he’dstillhadall thepower.

Joywondered,again,aboutGeorge’sdaughter.

Shewonderedwhythegirlhadwantedanabortion.

She wondered if the girl was watching the news, if she feltresponsible.

She wondered what it felt like to have an act of violencecommittedbecausesomeonelovedyoutoomuch,insteadoftoolittle.

—

WHENSHEWAS LITTLE,WRENhadbelievedher fatherkneweverything.Andshehadaskedhimthousandsofquestions:Aretheremoreleavesintheworld,orbladesofgrass?

Whycan’twebreatheunderwater?

Ifyoureyesarebluedoyouseeeverythinginblue?

Howdoyouknowyou’rerealandnotsomeoneelse’sdream?

Howdoyougetwaxinyourears?

Wheredoesthewatergowhenyouletthebathtubdrain?

Whydon’tcowstalk?

Onceshehadasked,Areyougoingtodie?

Hopefullynotforalongtime,hehadanswered.

AmIgoingtodie?

NotifIcanhelpit.

Thereweresomanythingsshehadnotaskedherfather,thatnowshewishedshehad.Whatitisliketoseesomeonedieinfrontofyoureyes?

Whatdoyoudowhenyourealizeyoucouldn’tsavethem?

Wrenliftedhergazetothemanshehadstabbedinthehand,theonewhohadtriedtoshoother.Theonewhohadshotheraunt.TheonewhohadkilledOlive.

He was wrapping gauze around his bleeding palm, and doing areallyshittyjobofit.Whenthegunhadgoneoff,atfirstWrencouldn’thearanything,andshethoughtforasecondshehadactuallybeenshotand thiswaswhatdeathwas.But thesilencehadbeenhereardrumsshuttingdown,andthebloodalloverherhadcomefromOlive.Bythe

timeWrencouldhearagain, the roombleating in fitsandstarts, shedidn’twantto.

ThetatterednamerippedfromOlive’slips,foranyonewhowouldbeamessenger.

Janinekeening.

Dr.Wardmoaning in a yellow haze of pain as Izzy checked histourniquet.

Andatiny,highwhistlethatittookWrenawhiletofigureoutwascoming from the centerofherownbody, the soundof fearvibratingthroughthetuningforkofherskeleton.

Shestoleaglanceattheshooter.Heclumsilytiedoffthebandage,usinghisteeth.

Justwatch.Wrenwouldbe thegirlwhohadcome toawomen’shealthclinictogetbirthcontrol,butstillmanagedtodieavirgin.

Suddenly theman lunged forward. Izzy shifted slightly, as if shewerewillingtothrowherselfbetweenWrenandtheshooter,butWrenwouldbedamnedifsheletthathappenagain.Shetwistedatthelastminuteso thatwhenhegrabbedher forearmand jerkedherupright,Izzycouldn’tgetintheway.

AsmallcryescapedWren’sclenchedteeth,andshehatedherselffor showing anyweakness. She forced herself to look him in the eyeeventhoughherkneeswereknockingtogether.

Bringit,youmotherfucker,shethought.

“Let’sgo,girl,”hesaid.

Shecouldsmellthecellarofhisbreath.

Wherewashetakingher?Wherewashetakingher?

Heglanced at the others. “Donotmove. Ifany of youmove I’llmake sure you nevermove again.” As if for punctuation, he glanceddownatOlive’sbody.

“Letgoofme,”Wrenyelled,activelyfighting.Shetriedtopulloutofhisgrasp,buthewastoostrong.“Letgoofme!”sheshrieked,andsheliftedherfoottokickhim,buthetwistedheraroundroughly,hisarmpressingagainstherwindpipe.

“Donot,”hesaid,“temptme.”

Heincreasedhispressureonherthroatuntilshesawstars.

Stars.

Andthenitallstartedtogoblack.

Suddenlyhelethergo.Wrenfelltoherhandsandknees,suckinginair.Shehatedthatshewasatthisman’sfeet,likeadoghecouldkickto the curb. “My dad is never gonna let you out of here alive,” shegasped.

“Well,toobadyourdadisn’twithus.”

“Ohyeah?”Wrensaid.“Whodoyouthinkthatisonthephone?”

Forjustamoment,everythingstopped,likeitdoesattheapexoftherollercoasterwhenyouarecaughtbetweenheavenandearth.

Butthen,youplummetdown.

Theshootersmiled.Aterrible,reptilesmile.Wrenrealizedshedidnothavetheupperhandafterall.

“Well,”theshootersaid.“It’smyluckyday.”

—

HUGHLETTHEPHONERING fivemoretimesandthenslammeditdown.He was electric with frustration. The hostages had not come out.Georgewasnotanswering.Hugh’sdecisionanhouragotocuttheWi-Fi and block all phone signals except the landline had cost him theability to textWrentosee ifshewasallright—or ifshehadbeentheonewhowasshot.

ItseemedlikeyesterdaythathehaddrivenWrentokindergarteninhistruck.Astheyturnedintothehalf-moondrivewayoftheschool,hewouldtellhertoputonherjetpack,andWrenwouldwriggleintoheroversizeknapsack.He’dslowtoastop.LaunchingWren,hewouldannounce,andshewouldleapoutofthecar,asifsheweresettingfootonanewandunexploredplanet.

After Annabelle had left them, for several months, Wren hadaskedwhenshewascominghome.She’snot,Hughhad toldher. It’sjustyouandmenow.

Then one night, Hugh had gotten called to a domestic that wasspiraling out of control. Bex had come to stay withWren, who wasinconsolable.When he got home at 3:30 A.M., his daughter was still

awakeandsobbing:Ithoughtyouweregone.

Hugh had pulled her into his arms. I will never leave you, hepromised.Never.

Whowouldhaveguesseditmightbetheotherwayaround?

He felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the SWATteam commander standing shoulder to shoulder with the chief ofpolice.“Youshouldhavetoldmeaboutyourdaughter,”ChiefMonroesaid.

Hughnodded.“Yes,sir.”

“YouknowIcan’tkeepyouincharge,son.”

Hughfeltheatspreadbeneathhiscollarandherubbedhishandonthebackofhisneck.Hiscellphone—theonehehadbeenusingtocommunicatewithGeorgeGoddard—startedtobuzzonthecardtablehewasusingasadesk.Heglancedattheincomingnumber.“It’shim.”

Quandtlookedatthechiefandthencursedunderneathhisbreath.ChiefMonroepickedupthephoneandhandedittoHugh.

—

IN2006,INTHESTATEofMississippi,sixteen-year-oldRennieGibbswaschargedwith“depravedheart”murderwhenshedeliveredastillbornat thirty-six weeks. Although the umbilical cord had been wrappedaround the baby’s neck, the prosecutor claimed the stillbirth wascausedbyGibbs’scocaineuse,duetotraceelementsofillegaldrugsinthebaby’sbloodstream.

TheprosecutorwasWillieCork,thesameshowboatwhohadbeeninBeth’shospitalroom,chargingherwithmurder.

Bethglancedupfromthearticleshewasreadingoverherpublicdefender’s shoulder. “Is it true?” she asked. “Theprosecutor did thisbeforetosomeoneelse?”

“Don’treadthis,”Mandysaid,closingherlaptop.

“Whynot?”

“Becauselookinguppriorcaseswhenyou’reinlegaltroubleislikegoingtoWebMDwhenyouhaveacold.You’llwindupconvincedit’scancer.”Shesighed.“Williehasmajoraspirationsforthenextelection.Hewantstopainthimselfassomeonewho’stoughoncrime—evenfor

thepre-born.”

Bethswallowed.“Didshegotojail?RennieGibbs,Imean?”

“No. She was indicted by a grand jury, but the evidence wasquestionable.In2014thecasewasdismissed.”

“Thatmeansminecouldbe,too,right?”

Mandylookedather.“ThatmeansWillieCorkneedsawin.”

Bethwasscaredandoverwhelmed.Shehadahundredquestions,andtheanswertoallofthemwasprobablysomethingshedidn’twanttohear.Shefelttearsclimbtheladderofherthroat,andsheturnedonherside,closinghereyes,hopingthatMandywouldn’tnotice.

Shemayhave fallenasleep.WhensheheardWillieCork’s voice,shethoughtatfirstshewashavinganightmare.“Whatthehellareyoudoingouthere?”hesaid,andBethlookedoutfrombeneathherlashesto see that thedoorwas open, andhewas chewing out the copwhoMandyhadconvincedtostandoutside,sothattheycouldhaveprivacy.“Youleftthemintherealone?Getout.I’mhavingyoureassigned,”theprosecutorswore,“andI’mwaitinguntilyourreplacementgetshere.”

Sheheardhis voice in aone-sidedphone conversationwith, sheguessed,someoneatthepolicestation.Mandygotupandstoodintheopendoorway,waitingforhimtohangup.WasitweirdthatherpublicdefenderhadsattherethewholetimeBethwasasleep?Haditbeentoavoid leaving Beth alone in a room with some male cop she didn’tknow?

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”MandyhissedatWillieCork.

“I could ask you the same, since I’m guessing that cop didn’twanderoutsidebyhimself.”HecrossedpastBeth’sbedandpickedupa silver pen that was sitting on top of the radiator, something shehadn’t noticed. “To answer your question, I left this behind byaccident.”Heturneditoverinhishand.“Montblanc.MydaddygaveittomewhenIgraduatedfromlawschool.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Keep your voice down. She’s sleeping.Andyouleftitbehindbyaccident?Comeon.Youplantedthatsoyoucould come back and interrogate my client without her lawyerpresent.”

“Now,now,Mandy.You’resoundin’likeaconspiracytheorist.”

“Says the slick son-of-a-bitch who plans to climb to the districtattorney’sofficebytramplingonafrightened,innocentgirl.”

IfBethhadhadanythoughtsofrevealingshewasn’tsleeping,theyvanished. She concentrated on making her breathing even, on notrattlingthehandcuffagainstthebedrail.

“Dismissthecharges,”Mandysaidquietly.“I’mdoingyouafavor,Willie.Don’truinagirl’s lifebecauseyouwanttogetaheadinyours.You’reonlygoingtowindupembarrassed,likeyoudidbefore.”

RennieGibbs,Beththought.

“You’re trying to elevate the status of a fetus to personhood,”Mandycontinued,“andwedon’thavethatlawinMississippi.”

“Yet,”theprosecutoranswered.

Beth had been too nervous to really look at him during thearraignment,butnowshedid,peekingthroughtheseamsofherlids.WillieCorkwasn’tmucholderthanherpublicdefender,buthealreadyhadthreadsofsilveratthetemplesofhisblackhair.Heprobablydyedthemthatway,justtolookthepart.

“Mississippihasa longhistoryofviolenceagainstpeoplewho’vebeensilenced,”hesaid.

Mandy laughed. “Willie, surely evenyou aren’t dumb enough totrytoplaytheracecardonaBlackwoman.”

“Unbornchildrenarealreadypartofthefabricoflegaldocuments.Why, my granddaddy made sure I had a trust before I was even aglimmerinmydaddy’seye.”

“Youknowthere’saworldofdifferencebetweenthelegalrightsofanunbornchildandtheconstitutionalrightsofalivinghumanbeing,”Mandywhispered,heatedly.“TheConstitutionmayprotectlibertyandprivacy interests, but the Supreme Court has determined that thoseprotectionsdon’ttakeeffectuntilbirth,andthatpriortobirth,afetusis not a person. Statesmay give a fetus legal rights, but that doesn’tmakeitaperson.”

Beth’sheadwasspinning.Thesewerealotofwords,andmostofthemshedidn’treallyunderstand.Whatshedidn’tgetwaswhy,ifthiswasallaboutafetus,shewastheonewhowashandcuffed.Shestifledthehystericallaughbubbling:afterallshehadgonethroughtonotbe

responsibleforababy,itturnedoutshestillwas.

“I’m merely elaborating on a time-honored legal tradition ofallowingthosewhodon’thaveavoicetohaveoneincourt.Youseeiteveryday,whenaguardianadlitemisappointedtospeakforchildren,orpeoplewithdisabilities.Wehave laws toprotect thevulnerable inthis country who can’t protect themselves. Like, for example, yourclient’sbaby.”

“My client’s fetus,”Mandy clarified, “which relied on its host tosurvive.”

“Andif thathostdoessomethingtocauseharm,thereshouldbeconsequences. If she had been attacked by someone when she waspregnantand lost thebaby,wouldn’tyouwantherattackerpursued?Youknow if thatwas the case, you’d be fighting as hard as I am forjustice. We’re not going to exclude the perpetrator just because herwombhappenstohousethechild.”

“Whataboutthemother’srights?”askedMandy.

“Can’thaveitbothways,darlin’,”WillieCorksaid.“Youdon’tgetto call her a mother if you aren’t willing to call what’s inside her ababy.”

They were not even whispering anymore, and both lawyers hadtheirbacksturnedtowardBeth.Itwasasiftheyhadforgottenshewastherootofthisargument.

Itwouldn’thavebeenthefirsttime.

Thereasonshewashere,now,was thateveryoneelseseemedtohave the right tomakedecisions abouther—exceptBethherself. Shewassodamntiredofbeingabystanderinherownlife.

“Youdon’thaveacase,”Mandychallenged.

“Don’t I, though?” the prosecutor slipped his phone from hispocket, punched the screen a couple of times, and started to readaloud. “Mississippi code annotated 97-3-19: The killing of a humanbeingwithout theauthorityof lawbyanymeansor inanymannershallbemurderinthefollowingcases:SubsectionA—whendonewithdeliberate design to effect the death of the person killed … orSubsectionD—whendonewithdeliberatedesigntoeffectthedeathofanunbornchild.Andofcourse,there’sprecedent.”

“That’sbullshit.”

“Purvi Patel,” Willie Cork began. “Twenty sixteen. She took thesamepills yourclientdid to terminateherpregnancy,at twenty-fourweeks.GotthemfromaHongKongonlinepharmacy.Whenthebabydied after birth, she was charged with a Class A felony. She wasconvictedandsentencedtotwentyyearsforfeticideandchildneglect.”

“Theevidencewasn’tclearinthePatelcasethatthebabywasbornalive,”Mandyargued.“Andtheconvictionwasoverturned.”

“BeiBeiShuaidrankratpoisontocommitsuicidewhenshewasthirty-three weeks pregnant. Her baby died, but she didn’t, and shewas charged with murder and attempted feticide and sentenced tothirtyyears,”theprosecutorreplied.

“And the charges against her were dropped after she pleadedguiltytoalesserchargeandspentayearincustody.”Mandyfoldedherarms.“Everycaseyou’vecitedhasbeenthrownoutordismissed.”

“ReginaMcKnight,”theprosecutorsaid.“SuccessfullyprosecutedinSouthCarolinaforhomicidefollowingastillbirthcausedbyprenatalingestionofcrackcocaine.Shegotatwelve-yearsentence.”

“Are you kidding? McKnight wasn’t even trying to have anabortion,”Mandyargued.

“You’renotmakingyourpointhere,darlin’.You’remakingmine.If those women were charged with murder and intent wasn’t eveninvolved,imaginehoweasyit’sgonnabetolockupyourgirl.”

Thedoorswungopen,andanewcopentered.“Youwillnotleavethis room,”Willie Cork ordered. “Not even if the building is on firearoundyou.Andyou,”hesaidtoMandy,“well,goodluck,Counselor.”

Mandyfacedhim.“AslongasRoev.Wadestands,myclienthadeveryrighttoterminateherpregnancy.”

“Yes,”theprosecutoragreed.“ButinMississippi,shedidn’thavetherighttodoitbyherself.That,mydear,ismurder.”

Murder. Beth flinched, and her handcuff scraped the rail. Bothattorneys whirled around at the same moment, realizing she wasawake.

“I—I’msorry,”Bethstammered.

“Littlelateforthat,isn’tit?”WillieCorksaid,andhesailedoutthe

door.

—

GEORGEGODDARD’SVOICECRACKLEDTHROUGHHugh’sphone.“Ibelieve,”hesaid,“thatIhavesomethingofyours.”

Heknows,Hughthought.HeknowsaboutWren.

Hugh shivered, even though it had tobeninetydegrees outside.Heflickedhiseyesoverthesmallgrouphuddledaroundhiscommandcenterandnodded.Quandtslippedonapairofheadphonesto listenin. “George,”Hugh said evenly, not taking the bait. “I heard a shot.Whathappened?Areyouhurt?”

Remindthehostagetakeryou’reonhisside.

“Thosebitchestriedtoshootme.”

HughglancedattheSWATcommander.“Soyouweren’ttheonewhofiredthegun?”

“Ihadto.Theystabbedme.”

Hugh closed his eyes. “Do you need medical help?” he asked,althoughhereallydidn’tgiveafuckifGeorgebledtodeath.

“I’lllive.”

Quandtraisedonebrow.

“Whatabout…everyoneelse?Didsomeonegethurt?”

“Theoldlady,”Georgesaid.

“Doessheneedmedicalattention?”

Therewasaflickerofsilence.“Notanymore,”Georgesaid.

Hugh thought about Bex, about all that blood. “Anyone else,George?”

“Ididn’tshootyourdaughter,ifthat’swhatyou’reasking,”Georgesaid.“NowIknowwhyyoudidn’tsendintheSWATteam.”

“No!”Hugh said quickly. “Look. I didn’t know she was in therewhenyouandIstartedtalking.”

Findabridgebetweenyou.

“Shenevereventoldmeshewasgoingtotheclinic,”Hughadded.“Youknowwhatthat’slike.”

Hughheldhisbreath.HehatedtalkingthiswayaboutWren.No,hehadn’tknownshewasgoingtotheclinic.Yes,hehatedhimselfforthefactthatshehadaskedBextotakeher,andnothim.Buthedidn’tblameWrenfornotfeelingcomfortable.Heblamedhisownparenting,fornotmakingitclearthatnoquestion,norequest,nothingwasoff-limits.

How many parents had he sat with in their own living rooms,whilethemedicalexaminer’steamremovedthebodyoftheirteenagechild behind them, raw with the marks of a noose or the cuts of arazor?Ididn’tknow,theywouldsay,dazed.Shenevertoldme.

Hughneversaiditoutloud,butsometimesthought:Well,didyouask?

Andhehad.Hewouldpokehishead intoWren’s roomandsay,Anyonepickingonyouatschool?Anythingyouwanttotalkabout?

Shewouldlookupfromherhomework.YoumeanotherthanthepipebombI’mbuildinginmycloset?Thenshewouldgrin.Nosuicidalthoughts,Dad.Allclear.

But therewere a hundredmines a teenager could step on daily.Oneofthemhadslippedthroughhisdefense.

Suddenly everything inHughwent still. Yes, George had a vitalpieceof informationnow—thatoneofhishostageswasrelatedtothenegotiator. He thought it gave him an advantage. But what if Hughcould use the knowledge of that information to tip the scales in hisownfavor?

“Listen,” Hugh said. “Both our kids snuck around behind ourbacks.Youcouldn’tstopyourdaughter,George.Butyouwereabletostopmine.Yousavedherfrommakingaterriblemistake.”

It was not true. Wren had not gone to the Center to get anabortion.Hughknewthis.ButGeorgedidn’t.

“YouknowwhyIwantthistobeover,George?”Hughsaid.

“You’reworriedaboutyourkid.”

“Yeah.ButIalsowanttomeetmygrandchild,oneday.Becauseofyou,that’spossible.”

Silence.

“It’dbelikegettingasecondchance.I’masingleparent,George.

Justlikeyou.Imaynotalwayshavebeenthebestfather,butItriedtobe.Youknow?”

Therewas a huff of response on the other end of the telephoneline,whichHughtookasassent.

“ButI’malsoworriedaboutwhatshethinksofme.Iwanthertobeproud.IwanthertothinkIdideverythingIpossiblycouldforher.”

“Wecan’tbothbethehero.”

“Heroisjustalabel,”Hughsaid.“Buthonor—that’salegacy.Youhave a chance, George. A chance to redeem yourself. To do what’sright.”

Hewastakingarisk,raisingthespecterofintegritytoamanwhohadonlyhoursagogoneoffthedeependduetoaquestionabouthisreputation.Butthenitstoodtoreasonthatapersonwhosedignityhadbeen questioned might crave respect. So much so that he would bewillingtosurrenderinordertogetit.

“It’snothonorabletoquit,”Georgesaid,butHughcouldhearit—theweakening of bonds between the syllables of his conviction. Thewhatif.

“Depends on the circumstances. Sometimes you have tomake achoicethatisn’twhatyouwanttodo,butwhatyouhavetodo.That’shonor.”

“You’retheguyinthewhitehat,”Georgescoffed.“You’veprobablyneverevenjaywalked.Everyonelooksuptoyou.”

HughmetCaptainQuandt’sgaze.“Noteveryone.”

“Yougotnoideawhatyoumightdowhenyoufeeltrapped.”

George was retreating into his own defensive armor, makingexcusesforhisbehaviorandusingittosevertheconnectionthatHughhadbuiltwithhim.Hecouldcontinuedownthisrabbithole,andtakeallthehostageswithhim—itwouldbefast,anditwouldbebloody,anditwouldbeover.

Or.

Hugh could say something, do something, that would makeGeorgerealizehewasnotstuck.Thattherewasawayout.

HestaredatQuandt,silentlybeggingthemanforagraceperiod.

ButtheSWATcommandertookoffhisheadphonesandturnedtorallyhisteam.

“You told me you started this for your daughter,” he said toGeorge.“Nowenditforher.”

H

Threep.m.

UGH STARED AT THE WINDOWS OF THE CLINIC, MIRRORED LIKE aviatorsunglasses. He assumed they were a later addition, when the

protesters grew innumber.This gave thewomen inside a sense thatonce they crossed the threshold, their business was their businessalone. Those windows were meant to protect, but today, they wereobstacles.Nooneknewwhatwashappeninginsidethosewalls.

Heglancedat thephone inhishand, the linedead.Oneminutehe’d been talking with George, seemingly making progress, and thenext,hehadbeendisconnected.Hedialedagain,andagain,buttherewas no answer.His heartwas racing, and not just because he’d lostcontact with the hostage taker. The last sound he’d heard beforeGeorgehunguponhimwasWren’svoice.

Whichmeant—Ohfuck,hedidn’tevenwanttogothere.

Heopenedtothetextthreadhe’dhadwithhisdaughter.Wren,hetyped.?

RUOK

Heheldhisbreath,andthethreetelltaledotsappeared.

Shewasresponding.

Shewasallright.

Hesankintothefoldingchairsomeonehadbroughthimacoupleof hours ago, holding the phone between his hands and willing theresponsetocomefaster.

“Hugh?”

At the sound of Chief Monroe’s voice, he slipped his phonebeneathastackofpapers.Hecouldnot leton thatWrenwas inside.ThatheknewWrenwasinside.Theminutehedid,hisneutralitywascompromised.“Yeah,Chief?”

He looked up to see a guy in camo approaching. “This is Joe

Quandt,” the chief said. “He’s the SWAT commander. Joe, this isDetectiveLieutenantHughMcElroy.”

HughrecognizedQuandt;they’dworkedtogetherbefore.

Quandtheldouthishand.“Sorryforthedelay,”hesaid.

Itwasnotunusual fora countywideSWATteamto takeabitoftimetocongregate.Theindividualsconstitutingitcamefromalloverthe state and after receiving the call of a crisis in progress, had toconvergeuponit.Hughhadhadthreehoursonhisowntomanagethesituation,butnowthatCaptainQuandthadarrived,therewouldbeastruggletoseewhowouldactuallybeincharge.

Hugh immediately began to give a rundown of the past threehours. Ifheacted likehewas in charge,maybe itwould remain thatway.

“Haveyougotaerialphotos?”Quandtasked,andHughnodded.Itwasoneofthefirstthingshe’daskedfor,sothatwhentheSWATteamneededtogetsnipersintoposition,they’dknowwheretoplacethem.He shuffled through the materials on his command desk,surreptitiouslyglancingathisphoneashedidso.Thosedotswerestillthere,butnomessageyet.

...

...

“I’ve already instructedmy team to take the perimeter,”Quandtsaid. Hugh knew this was a relief to the chief, who didn’t have themanpowertoblocktheclinicentrances,restrictthemedia,andreroutetraffic.“We’llbereadytogoininaboutfifteenminutes.”

SWAT teams existed to back up the negotiator, but they alsoitchedtodowhattheyweretrainedfor—endtheshowdownbyforce.Negotiatorswantedtodowhattheyweretrainedtodo—negotiate.

“Idon’tthinkthat’swise.He’sgotthehostagesinthefrontwaitingroom,”Hughsaid,“andhecanseeyoucomingthroughthemirroredglass,butyoucan’tseein.”

“Wecouldpumpteargasin…”

“Thereareinjuredpeopleinthere,”Hughsaid,hisvoiceeven.Andmykid.

ThechiefturnedtoHugh.“Sowhat’syourplan?”

“GiveGoddarda littlemore time,”Hughsaid.Letme figureoutwhat’shappeninginsidefirst.LetmehearfromWren.

Quandt shook his head. “It’s my understanding that there wereshotsfired…”

“Butnotinthelastthreehours,”Hughpointedout.“I’vebeenableto keep him calm.” He looked at Quandt. “If you go in, can youguaranteethatyouwon’tloseahostage?”

TheSWATteamcommander’s jawtightened.“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.

Both men turned to Chief Monroe. “Hugh will continue to runwithitfornow,”thechiefreplied.

ChiefMonroeputhishandonHugh’sshoulder,turninghimawayfromtheSWATcommander.Hespokeinafirm,quietvoice.“Youdoknowwhatyou’redoing,don’tyou?”

“Yes, sir,”Hughsaid,as ifhostagenegotiationwasa setof rulesyoucould follow, rather thanagamewhere theplayersmadeup therulesastheywent.“Ihavetogetbackto…Ineedto…”

Hemovedtohismakeshiftdeskagainandgrabbedhisphone.

Therewasnomessage,andthedotsweregone,too.

Hetextedagain:WREN?

—

WHENTHESHOOTERHADYANKEDopenthedoortoherhidingplace,Wrenthoughtherheartwasgoingtoburst.Shebarelymanagedtohideherphoneinhersockbeforehegrabbedherwristandpulledsohardthatshecriedout.Shemanagedtoclawhisfaceanddrewblood,atriumphabout which she was supremely happy. He dragged her into thewaitingroominthefrontoftheclinic,theonewiththewindowswhereyoucouldseeoutbutpeopleonthestreetcouldn’tseein.Shelandedsprawledonherbellyinfrontofahandfulofpeople.

Therewasawomaninsweats,whohadfrecklesalloverherfacethatstoodoutbecauseshewassopale rightnow.Therewasanothergirl—maybeinhertwenties?—withagiantbruiseonherforehead.Theredheadedlady inscrubswhohadopenedtheclosetdoorearlierandpretendednottoseeher,andOlivewassittingonthefloor.Theonly

malehostagerestedhisheadinherlapandwasbreathingheavily.Hisownscrubshadbeenrippedoffatthethigh,andbelowabeltoffabricandtape,hislegwasbloodied.

HerauntBexwasnowhere.

Wren felt tears spring toher eyes.Was shedead?Had someonedraggedherbodyintoanotherroom?

When she was little, and her aunt Bex used to watch her afterschool while her dad was at work, they did everythingWren wasn’tsupposedtodo.Theyatedessert,andskippeddinner.TheywatchedR-rated movies. Her aunt had promised that not only would she takeWren to get a tattoowhen shewas eighteen, shewoulddesign it forher.

Whatifneitherofthemsurvivedthatlong?

“Tieherhands,”theshooteryelled.“Now!You!”Hejerkedthegunattheredheadinscrubs.

She took a roll of surgical tape and wrapped it around Wren’swrists.Shewastryingtodoitloosely,butitwastape,andtherewasnoway Wren was getting free anytime soon. “Are you hurt?” shewhispered.“I’manurse.”

“I’mokay,”Wrenmanaged.“Myaunt…”

“Thewomaninthecloset?”

Wrenshookherhead.“No.Theladywhowasshot.Outhere.”

“Bex,”thenursemurmured.“Shegotout.”

Wrencollapsedwithreliefonanemptycouch.AuntBexwasalive.Oratleastshehadbeen.

ShehopedthatthenexttimeshesawBex,herauntreamedherforputtingher inthissituation.ShehopedthatBexyelledso loudWrenwasbroughttotears.Shewouldn’tmindifBexrefusedtoforgiveherfortherestofherlife.Justsolongasshehadarestofherlife.

WrenhadbeggedAuntBextobringherhere.Ifshehadtalkedtoher dad, maybe they could have made an appointment with agynecologist.Maybeshewouldbesnaggingalollipopfromabasketonherwayout.(Didgynecologistsevenhavethose?Orweretheyjustforpediatricians’offices?)

Thenagain,shenevercouldhaveaskedherfather.Hedidn’tevenlet herwear spaghetti straps to school. All he knew aboutRyanwasthattheywereworkingtogetheronachemistryproject.

Whichwaskindoftrue.

But what was combustible was the two of them. Wren thoughtabout the kisses that made her lips feel like they’d been blistered;abouthowhishandsnakedunderhershirtand ignitedherskin.Shethought of the giddy rush of adrenaline that flooded her when theyscrambledapartabreathbeforeRyan’smotheropened thedoor,herarmsfullofgroceries.

HadshetoldherfatheraboutRyan,hewouldhavebeenwaitingon the hairpin turn near the high school to give Ryan a ticket fordriving too fast or too slowor too erratically.Hewouldhavedone abackgroundcheck.HewouldhaveconvincedhimselfthatthisboydidnotdeserveWren.

Therewasnothingherfatherwouldn’tdoforher.Buttherewerealso things her father couldn’t do for her.When she had gotten herperiodtwoyearsago, thecrampshadbeensobadshe’dtoldherdadshe was sick and couldn’t go to school. He held his hand to herforehead, dubious, because she didn’t have a fever. “I have cramps,”she told him flatly, and hewent bright red and stumbled out of herroom.Hereturnedanhour laterwith twobags fromCVS—Gatorade,Advil,aMatchboxcar,aRubik’sCube,apackofBazookagum,alittlepuzzlewithapictureofakitten.Hesetthemonthefootofherbed,asif he couldn’t bring himself to get too close to her. “Foryour…um…lady-stomach,”hemurmured.

Seriously, how could she ask a man who couldn’t even say thewordcrampstobringhersomewheretogetbirthcontrol?

Shehadturnedtoherauntforhelp,andithadalmostcostBexherlife.Itstillmight.

In her sneaker, her cellphone vibrated. She crossed her ankles,wonderingifanyoneelsehadheardthebuzz,knowingitwasprobablyherdad.

Hewouldnot let anythingbadhappen toher.Even if she couldnotreachherphoneandtellhimshewasallright.

Sometimes when her father came home from work and was

particularlyquiet,Wrenknewthathe’dhadareallyshittyday.Heoncetoldherthatbeingadetectivemeantyouhadtopeelbacktheprettyofa town, and see its festering wounds: who was an addict, who wasbeatinghiswife,whowasdrowningindebt,whowassuicidal.Buthenevertoldherdetails.Shehadaccusedhimonceoftreatingherlikeababy.It’snotthatIwanttohideanythingfromyou,he’dtoldher.It’sthatifItellyou,you’llneverlookatpeoplethesameway.

Wren turned back to the nurse, and then to each of the otherwomen.“I’mWren,”shewhispered.

“Izzy,”saidthenursesoftly.“AndthisisDr.Ward.”

Themanliftedahand,butthatwasallhecouldmanage.

Thewomanwithabruiseonherforeheadmethergaze.“Janine,”shemouthed.

“Joy,”whisperedthewomaninsweats.

“What’shegonna—”

“Ssh,”Izzyhushed,asthemanreturned,draggingOlivefromtheclosetandunceremoniouslyshovingherintothespacebesideWren.

“Sorry,ma’am,”theshootersaidtoOlive.

AndthenhepointedthegunatWren’sface.

—

IT WAS THE SECOND TIME Olive had come out of the closet, and it wasequally traumatic. Now, she glanced around the room. Wren wasshakinglikealeaf,herwristsbound.Therewereredmarksonherskinwhere the gunmanhad yankedher out of their hiding spot. Itwas awonderhehadn’tdislocatedthegirl’sarm.

Seeinghisroughness,Olivehadbeenthemostdocile,subservienthostage imaginableashehauledheroutof theutilitycloset, too.Shepleadedwithhim—whatcouldasixty-eight-year-oldwomandotohim,after all? And it hadworked. Likemostmen, he saw only her petiteframe,andnotthestrengthofhermind.Hepushedher intoacouchnexttoWren,buthesaid,Sorryma’am.Andhedidn’trestrainherashehadWren.Nowherbrain—hercelebratedretired-professorbrain—wasworkingintripletimetofindawayoutofthissituation.

HestartedwavingthegunatOliveandWren.Itbouncedbetweenthemwitheachsyllable,likethelittleballonthescreenatasing-along.

“Didyouthinkyoucouldhidefromme?Didyou?”

Olivewas trying to be strong, really shewas. Peg, herwife,wasalwaysthefirsttotellhersheoftenworriedherselfintoapanicaboutthings that didn’t come to pass. Like, for example, a mark on hershoulder that she was certain was a tick bite heralding the onset ofLymedisease.(Itwasn’t.)AnewsreportaboutanothermissilefiredoffbyNorthKorea,whichOlive thoughtwould startWorldWar III. (Ithadn’t.) “Eeyore,” Peg would call her, and in this moment of allmoments,thethoughtmadeOlivesmile.

Well,Peg,I’minaroomwithacrazyguywavingagunandfiveotherhostages.Isitallrighttopanicnow?

“You lied tome!”Heturned, the forceofhisangerbendingoverthewomanwhowaswearingscrubs.Anurse?“Youtoldmethatclosetwasempty!”

Thewomancowered,herarmsshieldingherface.“Ididn’t—”

“Shutup!Shutyourgoddamnmouth!”heyelled.

In addition to Olive and Wren, there were three other women.Therewasayoungwomaninsweatpants,andanotheronewithabigbruise on her temple. There was the nurse, whose namemust havebeen Izzy, because theman shewas tending to kept callingher that.Thedoctor,maybe?Hewasinscrubs,likeher.Hewasbigenoughtotake down the gunman, if not for the fact that his leg looked likehamburgerbelowthethigh,andhewasinobviouspain.

Wren’sauntwasnowheretobeseen.

And then there was the gunman. He was middle-aged—maybeforty,maybeforty-five.Hewaswiry,butstrong.Strongenoughtohaula fighting teenager out of hiding. A silver stubble of beard rubbedalongthecoastlineofhisjaw.TherewasnothingabouthimthatwouldhavemadeOlivelooktwiceathimonthestreet,unlesstheireyeshadmet. Then, she might have just stopped and stared. His eyes werealmostcolorless.Hisgazefeltlikeasuckingwound.

“I’m sorry,” Olive said, in her thickest Elderly Southern Ladyaccent.“Idon’tthinkwe’vebeenintroduced.I’mMizOlive.”

“Idon’tcarewhoyouare,”hesaid.

One of the other women caught her eye and glanced at the

television overhead, where the news was streaming in a weirdmetaphysicalmirror,areporterwiththisveryclinicoverhisshoulder.GUNMANIDENTIFIEDASGEORGEGODDARD,acaptionbelowread.

“Well, George,” she said evenly, as if they were sitting down tolemonade.“Lovelytomakeyouracquaintance.”

Hemayhavebeenunhinged, buthewas from theSouth,whereeventheunhingedhadmothersandgrandmotherswhodrilleddecadesofmannersintothem.Olivedidnotbelieveinusingherageexceptfordiscountpricesonmovieticketsandtoget10percentoffatKrogerthesecond Tuesday of the month. And now, apparently, in a hostagesituation.

George Goddard was sweating profusely, running his free handoverhisbrowandwipingitonhispantsleg.Olivehadaneurosciencebackground, but she could do armchair diagnosis with the best ofthem.Grandioseclaimsabouttheself.Asenseofentitlement.Lackofempathy.Atendencytolashout,whentheyfeellikethey’renotbeingrespected.

Narcissisticpersonalitydisorder.

Orhomegrownterrorist,Olivethought.Eitherwouldfit.

If you could see me, Peg, she thought. Olive was the one whopeeked from between her fingers during scary movies, who stillsometimes had to check the closet before going to bed tomake suretherewasnothinglurkinginside(andgoodness,afterthisepisode,shewouldbedoingthatallthetime).Buthereshewascalmlyplayingtheold lady for all it was worth, the only postmenopausal one in thebunch.

Surelyheknewshehadn’tcomeheretogetanabortion.

Diditevenmatter?

The girl beside her burst into tears. Olive wrapped her armsaroundWren,tryingtowillherstrength.

Themankneltdown,hiseyescloudingforasecond.“Don’tcry,”he said toWren,his voice catching. “Pleasedon’t cry…”He reachedouttoherwithhisfreehand.

There was something in the way he was looking at Wren, butwasn’tseeingher,thoughtOlive.Inhismind’seye,thiswassomeone

else, maybe someone about her age, who had come to this clinicagainsthiswishes.Afterall,whatelsewouldhavesethimoff?

IfOlivewasright,andsheusuallywas,whathadhappenedtothatothergirl?

SheandPegusedtositattheairport,waitingfortheirflight,andeavesdrop on conversations between men and women, mothers andchildren,colleagues.Theywouldtaketurnsmakingupbackstoriesforthem.He grew up in a cult and hasn’t learned how to bond withsomeoneinahealthyway.She’sadoptedthatfive-year-old,whohasoppositionaldefiantdisorder.Thatguy’sasexaddict,cheatingwithhisboss’swife.

“Don’ttouchme,”Wrenshrieked,asthemanreachedouttoher.She kicked reflexively, connectingwith his knee, and hewinced andbacked away. “Goddammit,” he growled, and he started toward her,butWrenletoutapiercingscream.Georgecoveredhishandswithhisears,hiseyesscrewedshut.

Wren let a loud wail loose again. And another. Maybe she hadfigured out that her auntwas dead, and shewas inconsolable. Olivesqueezedherarm.Clearly every timeWrenopenedhermouth, it setthegunmanonedge.Shehadtoseethat,evenifshewasyoung.Didn’tshe?

Herweepingwasalmostrhythmic.

And…wasWren’sfootbuzzing?

WrenturnedtoOlive,andOliverealizedthatinspiteofhercries,not a single tear streaked down her cheeks. Her chin noddedimperceptibly tohersock,whereaphonescreenglowedbeneathandvibratedwithatext.Shewascoveringupthesoundswithhersobs.

OlivewaiteduntilGeorgepacedpastthem,andthenshecoveredWren’sanklewithherpalm.Sheslippedherfingersbeneaththeelasticandfeltaroundforthepowerbutton,turningitoff.

Wrensaggedwithrelief,restingherheadagainstOlive’sshoulder.ThemovementmadeGeorgespinaround,theguntrainedonher.

Peg,Ididn’tevenjump,shewouldsay,whenthiswasallover.

Olive pasted a wide smile on her face. “George,” she said, “Iremember some Goddards from Biloxi. They were in the brick

business, family-run. You wouldn’t be related now, would you? I dobelievetheymovedtoBirmingham.OrwasitMobile?”

“Shutup,” he growled. “I should have left you in the goddamncloset.Ican’tthinkwhenyou’reyapping.”

Olivequieteddutifully,andthenshewinkedatWren.BecauseasGeorgewas busy silencing her, he had tucked the gun back into thewaistbandofhisjeans.

—

IN THE AMBULANCE, BEX TRIED to speak. “My … niece …” she rasped,clawingattheshirtoftheEMT.

“Don’ttrytotalk,”theyoungmansaid.Hehadsofteyesandsofterhands,andhisteethwereabeaconagainsthisdarkskin.“We’regonnatakecareofyounow.We’realmostatthehospital.”

“Wren…”

“When?” he said,mishearing her. “Soon. Real soon.”He smileddownather.“Yougotthedevil’sownluck.”

WhatBexknewwasthatthiswasnotluck,butkarma.IfWrendidnotgetoutofthatclinic,Bexwouldneverforgiveherself.Sheshouldhave known better than to go behindHugh’s back to the clinic. ButWrenhadcometoherlastweekafterschool,ridingherbiketoBex’sstudio;shehadbeenfinishinganewcommission—amuralgoingintoaskyscraper lobby inOrlando, to commemorate thePulse shooting. Itwasafourteen-by-fourteen-footprofileoftwomenkissing.ThepixelsweremadenotofPost-its,asusual,butofphotosofpeoplewhohaddiedduringtheAIDScrisis.

“Cool,”Wrenhadsaid.“What’sitgoingtobe?”

Bexhadexplainedit.“Wanttohelp?”

She gave Wren hundreds of tiny squares of tinted celluloid.Showingherhowtoaffixthemtoeachphotowithglue,Bexinstructedhertostartatthebottomandscreenthelasttenrowsofphotographsin shadesofviolet celluloid.Thenext ten rowsabove themwouldbeblue, then green, then yellow, and so on. Standing far enough away,you would see the kiss, but you would also see a rainbow. Standingclose, you’d see all the individual shoulders those two men had tostandoninordertoembraceeachotheropenly.

“Thisisn’tevenathingforkidsyourage,isit?”Bexmusedastheyworkedbesideeachother.

“Whatthing?”

“Beinggay.”

“It’squeer,FYI.AndImean,yeah.Itstillis,Ithink,ifyou’retheonewhohappenstobethatway.Peopleassumeyou’recisandstraight,soifyou’renot,you’redifferent.Butwhosaysthere’sonlyonewaytobenormal?”

Bexstoppedworking,herhandsstillingoverthelipsofoneofthemodels.“Whendidyougettobesosmart?”

Wrengrinned.“Whattookyousolongtonotice?”Theyworkedinsilenceforawhile,andthenWrenasked,“Doesthispiecehaveanameyet?”

“IwasthinkingmaybeLove.”

“That’s perfect,” Wren said. “But not just the word. The wholesentence. Exactly the way you said it.” She brushed a line of gluearoundavioletcelluloid.“AuntBex?CanIaskyousomething?Doyoubelievethatyoucanfallinlovewhenyou’refifteen?”

Bex’s hands stilled. She lifted the magnifying glasses she worewhen sheworked so that she could lookWren in the eye. “Youbet Ido,”shesaidfirmly.“Istheresomethingyouwanttotellme?”

And oh, it had been delicious—thewayWren’s cheeks had gonepinkwhensheheldhisnameinhermouth;howshetalkedabouthimasiftherehadneverbeenanotherboyonearth.Whatlovelookedlikewas this: fledgling and unsteady, fierce and soft-shelled at the sametime.

Wrendidn’thaveamotheraroundtotalktoherfranklyaboutsex.Hughwouldhaveprobablyrathercarvedouthisliverwithateaspoonthanhavethatconversationwithhisdaughter.SoBexaskedherniecethequestionsnooneelsewould:Haveyoukissedhim?Haveyoudonemorethanthat?Haveyoutalkedaboutprotection?

No judgment, no finger wagging. Just pragmatism. Once therockethadleftthelaunchpad,youcouldn’tbringitback.

Wrenwasfifteen;shewaswritinghisnameonthelegofherjeans;shewasstealinghissweatshirtssothatshecouldsleepintheghostof

his scent. But she’d also been thinking of birth control. “Aunt Bex,”Wrenhadaskedshyly,“willyouhelpme?”

And so it was with the best of intentions that—once again—Bexhaddonesomethinginexcusable.

She heard a machine somewhere behind her start to beep. TheEMTleanedcloser.Hesmelledlikewintergreen.“Ma’am,”hesaid,“trytorelax.”

Bexclosedhereyesagain,thinkingofthebulletthathadexplodedthrough her, and the pierce of the scalpel that hadmaybe saved herlife.

Thisiswhatitmeanstobehuman,Bexthought.Weareall justcanvasesforourscars.

—

WHENHUGH’SPHONEFINALLYDINGED,helungedforit.Butthetextwasn’tfromWren—itwas froma guynamedDick, a state trooperwhohadbeeninhishostagenegotiationtrainingsessions.Twohoursago,whenGeorge Goddard’s license plate was run, Hugh had reached out toDick,whogotasearchwarrantfromalocaljudgeandlethimselfintotheemptyhouse inDenmark,Mississippi.NowHughhadtheresultsof Dick’s search: a blurry photo of a handout about medicationabortions thathad thenameand logoof thewomen’scenteron it. ItwasenoughforHughtoconnectthedotsfromGeorgetothisclinic.

Where’sthedaughter?Hughtexted.

Therewasabeat.Andthen:M.I.A.

Hughrakedhishair,frustratedbythefactthattheonlypersonhedidn’twanttotalkto—hissister—refusedtoleavethesite;andthatthepeoplehedidwanttotalktowerenotcommunicating:Wren,GeorgeGoddard,hismissingdaughter.Whothehellcouldnegotiatewhennoonewaslistening?

Whatwashemissing,now?Whatcouldheusethathehadn’tusedbefore?

HughpickedupthephoneandtextedWrenagain.Hedialedthenumberoftheclinic,hissecureline.Onering.Two.

Threerings.Four.

There was a click of connection, and then George’s voice. “I’m

busy,”hesaid.

Musclememorytookover.“Iwon’ttakeuptoomuchofyourtime,George,”Hugh replied. “Wewere talking about yourdaughter,whenwegotcutoff.”

Whenyouhunguponme.

“Whatabouther?”

Hugh closed his eyes and made a leap into the unknown. “Shewantstotalktoyou.”

—

LOUIEWARDKNEWEXACTLYTHEmomentthatsomethingintheshooterhadchanged.Eventhoughhecouldonlyhearhalftheconversation,hecouldseethatthemangrewverystill.Hopecoulddothattoaperson,Louieknew.Paralyzeyouinsideandout.

“Whatabouther?”theshootersaid.

When he—George, his name was George, according to thetelevision still playing in thewaiting room—said that, Louie realizedtwoveryimportantthings:

1.Thiswaspersonal,forhim.Someone—awife,adaughter,asister—hadhadanabortion.

2.Hewantedthatsomeone’sapprovalfortoday’sactions.

Izzy leaned down on the pretense of tightening his tourniquet.“Her,”shemurmured.

“Mmm,”Louiesaid.“SoIheard.”

In the handful of times that the phone had rung over the pastcoupleofhours,thepeoplehuddledinthewaitingroomhadbeenabletotakeacollectivebreath.Georgedidn’tturnhisbackwhenhewasonthe phone—he wasn’t that stupid—but he also didn’t silence them iftheywhisperedtoeachother.

“Youthinkitwashiswife?”Izzywhispered.

“Daughter.”Louiegruntedasheshiftedandastreakofpainshotuphisleg.

“Youhaveeitherofthose?”

Louie shook his head. “I never wanted to make anyone else a

target,”headmitted.“Andeligibleladiesdon’toftencelebratethefactthatIspentthedaylookingintootherwomen’svaginas.”

Behind him, Janine shifted. “You don’t have to have a personalstaketoknowthatit’swrongtokillaninnocentbaby.”

Eighty-eight percent of abortions happened in the first twelveweeksofpregnancy,Louieknew,buttheantisactedlikethosefetuseswerealreadyeightpoundsandholdingtheirownbottles.

Joy’s eyes widened. “You are not defending him,” she said toJanine.“Afterheknockedyouout?”

“I’m just saying—if it wasn’t wrong, then there wouldn’t bepsychoslikehim.”

Izzy stared at her. “That’s themost ass-backward logic I’ve everheard.”

“Isit?Youwanttoprotectchildrenwithlawsthatpunishrapistsandmolestersandmurderers.Whyisthisanydifferent?”

“Becausethey’renotchildrenyet,”Izzysaid.“They’reembryos.”

“Theymaynotbebornbutthey’restillhuman.”

“OhmyGod,”Joysaid.“ShutherupbeforeIdoitmyself.”

Janine foldedher arms. “I’m sorry. I know that he’s insane, butyoucan’ttellmethereiseveravalidreasontodestroyachild.”

Louielookedather.“She’sright,”hemurmured,andtheothersallstaredathim.“Thereisneveravalidreasontodestroyachild.”

He thoughtofwhathehad seenover theyears:TheSyrian teenwhoneeded to terminateafterbeingrapedasanactofwar,butwhocouldn’tgetconsentfromherparents,whohadbeenkilledinthesamewar.Thesixteen-year-oldwhohadwantedtohaveanabortionateightweeks,whoseparentsstoodinherwaywiththeirreligion,andsoherabortionwasdelayedforsixweekswhileshefiguredouthowtogetajudicialbypassandtoraisethemoneytoterminate.Thefourteen-year-oldwhowantedtokeepherbaby,butwasbeingpushedbyhermothertohavetheabortion.

Afewyearsback,atwelve-year-oldgirlcameinwhowassixteenweekspregnant.Herhystericalmotherandstoicfatherwerewithher.She was quiet to the point of disengagement, clutching a tatteredstuffedrabbit.Shehadsaidthataneighborhoodboygotherpregnant,

butduringtheintakeprocesswhenshewasalonewiththecounselor,sheslippeduponher lieandrevealedthatthebabywasherfather’s.Themanwastakenoffbythepoliceinhandcuffs,butthatgirl,shestillneededanabortion.

While Louie performed the procedure he talked to her. He toldher,Thisisnotnormal,whathappenedtoyou.Thisisnotsomethingyou’vedone.Shedidn’trespond.Shedidn’tactlikeatwelve-year-old.Sheneverhadbeenallowedtobeatwelve-year-old.Buthehopedthatone day, when she was twice this age, she would remember thekindnessofamanwhohadn’thurther.

Now,LouieturnedtoJanine.“Whatwedohere,”hesaid,“whatIdo.Sometimesitletschildrenbechildren.”

Janine opened her mouth as if to argue the point, but thensnappeditshut.

Izzy tried to turn the conversation back to a safer spot. “Well,whoeversheis—wifeordaughter—maybeshecanconvincehimtoletusgo.”

Fromthecouchfurtherawaycamethevoiceofthegirl,Wren,whocould not have been much older than the child Louie had beenremembering.Hadshecomeheretogetanabortion?Wouldthey, inothercircumstances,havemetontheexamtable?

“Ifhewasmyfather,”shemuttered,“Isureashellwouldn’ttalktohim.”

—

FOR A MOMENT, THE ONLY sound in the hospital room was theintravenouspump.Bethlayonherside,herfaceturnedawayfromherpublic defender. “I wrapped it up,” Beth whispered. “I put it in thegarbage.Ididn’tknowwhatelsetodo.”

Shehadboughtmisoprostalandmifepristone, thepillsusedinamedication abortion, off the Internet. That was illegal in the UnitedStates,whichBethhadn’tknownat thetime.Abortionclinicsofferedmedicationabortions towomenwhowereup to tenweekspregnant,but theyhad to be administered in the clinic.Bethhadbeen sixteenweeks along, and had taken the pills at home. The medication haddoneits job,butithadalsocausedenoughhemorrhagingtolandherintheER.

Tears slipped down the bridge of Beth’s nose. For the first timesince shehad started talking, she looked atMandy. “MizDuVille? Itwasn’tababyyet…wasit?”

Mandy’smouthtightened.

“WhenIwenttotheclinic,”Bethsaid,“therewasawomanoutsidewhosaidmybabycouldfeelpain.”

The lawyer actually recoiled, and that onlymade Beth feel evenworse.Mandywasanattorney,notashrink.ForallBethknew,Mandywasagainstabortion,andwasonlyheretodoherjob.Didn’t lawyershave to defend horrible people—murderers, rapists—all the time, nomatterwhattheyfeltaboutthempersonally?

“I’msorry,”Bethwhispered.“Ijust…Ihaven’thadanyonetotalkto.”

“It’snottrue,”Mandysaidflatly.“Thepainthing.”

Bethcameuponanelbow.“Howdoyouknow?”

“Sciencedoesn’tsupportit.I’vedonetheresearch.”

Beth frowned, confused. “But you said you didn’t even knowanythingaboutmebeforethearraignment.”

“I did the research,” the lawyer repeated, “for me.” She leanedforward,herheadbent,proppedagainsttheheelsofherhands.“Iwasthirteenweeks pregnant. Just at the pointwhere you can tell peopleyou’rehavingababy,withouttemptingfate.MyhusbandandIwereattheultrasound,”shesaid.“IwantedtonameherMillicent,ifshewasagirl.StevesaidnolittleBlackgirlisnamedMillicent.HewantedaboynamedObediah.”

“Obediah?”Bethrepeated.

“Knock,knock,”Mandysaid.

“Who’sthere?”

“Obediah.”

“Obediahwho?”Bethplayedalong.

“Obediah-dore you.”Mandy closedher eyes. “Steve toldme thatjoke,andthenafterthat,everythingwenttohell.Thetechniciancameinandturnedonthemachineandstartedtheultrasoundandjustwentwhiteasasheet.”Sheshookherhead.“Thedoctorwhocameinwasn’t

my usual doctor. I remember exactly what he said.This fetus has ageneticabnormalityinconsistentwithlife.”

Bethsuckedinherbreath.

“It was called holoprosencephaly. It happens when two spermfertilizeoneeggattheexactsamemoment.Therewasaheartbeatanda brain stem, but the forebrain had never developed. If it survivedbirth, itwoulddiewithinayear.”Mandylookedup.“Ididn’twanttoterminate.IwasraisedCatholic.”

“Whatdidyoudo?”Bethasked.

“Iwentonlineandlookeduppicturesofthebabieswhohadit.Itwas … it was horrible.” She looked up at Beth. “I know there aremotherswhohavekidswithprofounddisabilities,andwhoseethatasablessing.Itwaskindofawake-upcalltoadmittomyselfIwasn’toneofthem.”

“Whataboutyourhusband?”

Mandylookedup.“Hesaiditwasano-brainer.”

AlaughburstoutofBeth;sheclappedherhandoverhermouth.“Nohedidn’t.”

“Hedid.”Mandynodded,smilingfaintly.“Hedidandwelaughed.Welaughed,andwelaughed,untilwecried.”

“Didyou…doyouhavechildrennow?”

Mandy met her gaze. “I stopped trying after the thirdmiscarriage.”

Silence fell between them. Beth spun through another scenario,one in which she had been brave enough to tell her father she waspregnant,oneinwhichshehadcarriedthebabytoterm,andgivenittosomeonelikeMandy.“Youmusthateme,”Bethwhispered.

ForalongmomentMandydidn’tspeak.Thensheliftedherchin.“Idon’thateyou,”shesaidcarefully.“IfyouandIbothtoldpeopleourstories,eventhemostpro-lifeadvocateswouldseemineasatragedy.Yours is a crime.” She thought for amoment. “It’s funny. The logicgoes that as aminor, you can’t exercise freewill to consent, becauseyoudon’thavethementalcapacitytodoso.Butinyourcase,thefetusisgettingtheprotectionyou’renot,asifitsrightsareworthmorethanyourown.”

Bethstaredather.“Sowhathappensnow?”

“You’regoingtogetdischargedfromthehospital, inadayorso.Andthenyou’llstayincustodyuntilthetrial.”

Beth’sheartmonitorbegantospike.“No,”shesaid.“Ican’tgotojail.”

“Youdon’thaveachoice.”

Ineverdid,Beththought.

—

“YOU’RELYING,”GEORGESAID.“MYdaughterisn’there.”

Fuckthatcop.Hemightbefishingforinformation,butthatdidn’tmeanGeorge planned to give it to him.Yet now thatHughMcElroyhadbroughtuphisdaughter,hecouldn’tstopthinkingabouther.

WasLilallright?

Wasshelookingforhim?

“Becauseshedoesn’tknowwhatyou’redoing,”Hughsaid.“AmIright?”

Lilknewthathelovedher.Helovedhersomuchthathehadcomehere tomake things right, even though it seemed impossible.Georgewouldnevermeethisgrandchild.HejusthopedthishadnotcosthimLil,too.

“Howwouldshefeelaboutyoubeinghere,George?”

Hehadnotbeen thinkingabout that, clearly,whenhecame.Hewasjustanavengingangelforhersuffering.AndhehadbeenthinkingofGod’sword.Aneyeforaneye.

Alifeforalife.

“What’shername,George?”

“Lil,”hesaid,thesyllablefallingfromhislips.

“That’spretty,”Hughsaid.“Oldschool.”

Georgehatedthathe’dleftheraftertheyargued.Heknewshe’dbewelltakencareof inhisabsence,buthealsoknewhehadfuckedup.He’d justneverbeengoodwithspeeches.Hedidn’tknowhowtosaywhathewasfeeling.PastorMikeusedtocallhimamanoffewwords,

butremindedhimthatdeedsspokeathousandtimesmoreloudly.

That’swhyhewashere,wasn’tit?

Thedriveherehadbeenlong,andhisthoughtshadprovidedthesoundtrackforthejourney.HehadimaginedLilinalltheincarnationsofherlife—thetimeshewasababywithcroupandhesatupwithherall night in a steamy bathroom, the shower blasting hot water; theFather’sDaywhenshe tried tomakehimpancakes forbreakfastandsetadish towelon fire; the soundofhervoiceharmonizingwithhiswhentheysangatchurch.Thenhe’dpicturedhimselflikeanavenger,swollentocomic-book-heroproportions,burstingthroughthedoorsoftheclinicandleavingdestructioninhiswake.

Hehad imaginedscreamsand fallingplasterandahazeofdust.Butsomehowalthoughhecouldseehimselfwhenhestartedshooting,everything afterward was fuzzy. Revenge, in theory, throbbed withadrenaline and was clean with conviction. In reality, it was rushingintoahouseonfire,andforgettingtomapoutyourexit.

Behind him, George heard a ripple of conversation. He turnedaround,thephonestillclutchedtohisear.“Quiet,”heordered.

“What’sgoingoninthere?”Hughasked.

Georgeignoredhim,tryingtofocusonthesceneinfrontofhim.The womenwere whispering, and the baby killer he’d shot was stilllyingon the floor,abandage twistedaroundhis thigh. “Joyneeds tousethebathroom,”saidthekid.

Theonewho’dscratchedhim.

Heglancedatherhands,makingsuretheywerestilltied.

“Well,holditin,”hemuttered.

Thenursewhowaskneelingonthefloorlookedup.“It’snotthat,”shesaid.“Sheneedstocheckherpad.Shejusthada—”

“Iknowwhatshehad,”Georgesnapped,interrupting.

“Iseverythingokay?”askedthecop.Therewasastrangenote inhisvoice,avibration.

“Ihavetogo.”

“Wait!”Hughsaid.“George,Iwasn’tlyingbefore.Ididn’tsayyourdaughterwashere.Isaidshewantstotalktoyou.She’slisteningtothe

news,George.Andtheydon’tgetthingsright.They’renotgoingtogiveyoursideof thestory toher.Onlyyoucandothat.”Hughpaused.“Icanmakethathappen,foryou.Icangetheronthephone.”

“Wait,”hemuttered,distracted.

“What’swrong,George?”thecopasked.“Talktome.”

Hewasstaringatthetelevisionthathadbeenontheentiretime.When he first got here, there was some daytime food show on. Butnow,therewasabreakingnewsbannerandapictureofareporterwiththeclinicbehindher.Herlipsweremoving,butthevolumehadbeenlowered;Georgecouldn’ttellwhatwasbeingsaid.

WhatifHughwasright?WhatifLilwaslistening?

“Where’s theremote?”heasked.Whenthewomenstaredathimlikehewascrazy—washe?Orwashethinkingclearlyforthefirsttimeinhours?—hebarkedatthemagain.“Theremote!”

Theoldladypointedtoashelfnearthetelevision.

“Get it,” he commanded.Hewas still holding the phone, but hehadtunedoutthecop’sinsistentvoice.

Theoldladywasfumblingwiththecontrol.Shedroppedit,pickeditup,andpointeditatthetelevision.“Ithinkthisistherightbutton,”shesaid,butnothinghappened.

“Faster!”Georgeyelled,andhejerkedthegunather.

Thewomanscreamedanddroppedthecontrolleragain.

“Leaveheralone!”thekidcried.

“George?” Hugh’s voice blistered against his ear. “George, whowasthatyelling?”

“Giveher thedamn thing,”heordered,pointing to the teenager.“Kidsalwaysknowhowtoworkstufflikethis.”

“Whatkid?”Hughsaid.

Georgeletthephonefallinhishand,holdingitagainsthisthigh,asthegirlmanagedtoincreasethevolumeevenwithherhandsbound.

“… given that Goddardwas in fact dishonorably discharged forkillingciviliansduringhisserviceinBosnia.”

The screen cut to a studio anchor. “Sowe can say that there’s a

historicalpatternofviolence…”

“Turnitoff,”Georgebreathed.

Hecouldn’tevenseethescreen.Hisvisionwasblurred,andallhecould imaginewasLil listening to thisutterbullshit. “That isn’twhathappened,”hemuttered.

He could feel the phone vibrating against his thigh, emittingsounds.

Suddenlyitwas2001andhewasinBosniaandhewasdoinghisjobandeveryonewasouttogethim.

HethoughtofLil,hearingthatbullshit.Hethoughtofhow,whenshewaslittle,shewouldalwaysplaytheprincessandhehadtobetheprincewhosavedherfromtheogreorthequicksandortheevilqueen.Shehadneverseenhimasanythingbutahero.Andnow?

Hereachedforthenearestpieceoffurniture—alamp—andhurleditagainstthewall.

Thewomenscreamed.

Hecouldhearthecopyelling,tryingtogethisattention.

Hehungupthephone.

Well,fuck.Theyhadhisattentionnow.

—

HUGH HELD THE PHONE IN his hand, the line dead. He had heard twocritical things inthebackgroundduringthis lastphoneconversation:Wren’svoice,andthetelevisionreportonGeorge’smilitaryservice.

He sank down onto a chair and speared his hands through hishair, making it stand on end.When he was young, Bex was foreversmoothing down his cowlicks. That’s what it really came down to,wasn’t it?Lookingpresentable to theworld,nomatterwhoyouwerewhenthecamerasweren’trollingandthedoorwasclosed.

When push came to shove, was he a hostage negotiator, or afather?

Whenthetwocameintoconflict,whichtriumphed?

He looked up, beckoning over a SWAT teammember. “Where’sQuandt?”heasked.

“Icangethimforyou,Lieutenant.”ThemanhurriedoffandHughstareddownathismakeshiftdesk,weighinghisoptions.

GeorgeGoddardwaslosingcontrol.

HughhadheardWren’svoice.

Shewasstillalive.

Andthismightbehisonlychancetokeepherthatway.

A shadow fell over him, and Hugh glanced up to see Quandtstandingwithhisarmscrossed.“Icanonlyassumethatthereasonyouwanttoseemeisbecauseyou’vecometoyoursensesandyou’rereadyformymentomovein,”hesaid.

“No,”Hughreplied.“Iwantyoutocutcommunications.”

“What?Why?”

“Idon’twantanycommsinthatbuildingthatdon’tcomedirectlyfrom us. I want the phone lines cut, except for the hard line to theclinicthatconnectstome.NoTVsignal,noWi-Fi,nothing.Ican’triskhimseeinganythingelseonTVthatwillsendhimovertheedge.”

“Whatifahostagetriestocommunicatewithus?Sayoneofthemtriestousehercell—”

“IknowwhatI’mdoing,”Hughsaidfirmly.

Herecognized therisks.Buthealsorealized thisdecisionwouldisolate George, so that the only information the shooter got wasdirectlyfromHughhimself.

Quandt looked at him for a longmoment, and thennodded.Hewalked off, shouting orders to hismen, whowould reach out to thecellularcompaniesandcablecompanyandeffectivelymaketheclinicanisland.

HughpickeduphisphoneandtextedWrenonemoretime,justincaseshesawit.

Trustme,hetyped.

—

OLIVEHADBEENAPROFESSORforthirty-fiveyearsbeforesheretired.Hercoursewason theworkingsof thebrain,and italwayshadawaitinglist.Shestartedeachsemesterbyshowingarandomstudentaphotoof

himselforherselfataneventorinacertaingeographicalplace.Afterafewquestions,thestudentwasabletorememberthatmoment,andtofillindetails.Thecatch?ThestudenthadbeenPhotoshoppedintothepicture,andhadneveractuallybeenthere.

Olive would explain to her students that the brain is constantlytellingus lies.Itsimplycan’trecordeverydetail thatoureyessee,soinstead,theoccipitallobeaddswhatitassumesisthere.Thebrainisn’tavideorecording—it’smorelikeaphotoalbum,andinbetweenthosepicturesitfillsintheblanks.Theresultisthatfalsememoriescanbecreated more easily than any of us want to believe. There will beincidents you swear on your mother’s grave happened a certainway…butdidn’t.

She wondered what she would remember of this incident. Shehoped,verylittle.Withanyluckshewouldbegrantedawondrousandselective amnesia. She hoped the same for all the others who werehuddled in the waiting room, watching George fight with his owndemons.

And what of George, the shooter? What had his brain piecedtogetherinaccurately,shewondered,tobringhimheretoday?

She raised her hand to her brow, surprised to see it come awaybloody. When George had thrown the lamp against the wall, it hadshattered, and ceramic and glass shards had gone everywhere.Including,apparently,hertemple.

“Letme,”thenursesaid—Izzy,thatwashername.ShepressedapieceofgauzeagainstOlive’sforehead,thoughtheybothknewitwasnothing more than a scratch. “We have to get out of here,” Izzymurmured.“He’slosingit.”

Olivenodded.“Oh,George,”shesaid,pastingawide,dizzysmileonherface.“Ihatetobeabother…but…George?”Shewaiteduntilhe lookedup.“I’mafraidthatmyage isgettingthebestofme.Somepartsdon’tworkaswellastheyusedto.”

Heblinkedather,confused.

“Ihavetopee,dear,”shestated.

AtthatIzzyturned.“IfOliveisgoingtotherestroomthenJoyhastogo,too.It’sformedicalreasons.”

“Ihaveanidea,”Olivesaid.“Whydon’tweallgonow?Ifwegetit

outoftheway,thenwewon’tbeanymoretrouble.”

Atthat,Georgesnorted.

A Hobson’s choice, that was what she had to offer George—achoicethatwasn’treallyachoiceatall—liketheexecutioneraskingifyou’dprefertohaveyourheadseveredfromyourbody,oryourbodyfromyourhead.OlivesmiledatGeorge.“Wouldyoulikemetogofirst,orMissJoy?”

Georgetookastepforward.“YouthinkI’manidiot?”hesaid.“I’mnotlettingyougointothebathroombyyourself.”

“Well,Ihardlythinkyou’dcaretowatch,”shereplied.Shegottoherfeet.“Idon’treallythinkIcanwaitmuchlongerforyoutodecide,dear.Themusclesintheurinarytractjustaren’twhattheyusedtobe—”

“For God’s sake,” George cut her off. He stepped forward,grabbingherarm.“Comeon.”

There was a small single-person restroom off the waiting roomwhere theywereall sitting.Georgedraggedher toward itand turnedonthelight,thengaveheraroughpatdown.“Go,”hesaid,butwhenOlivetriedtoclosethedoor,hepusheditbackopen.“Ifyoudon’twanttodoitthisway,youdon’tgettodoitatall.”

Oliveconsideredarguingwithhim,butintheendshejustnudgedthedoorclosedabit.Itremainedopenforallintentsandpurposes,butshewasmostlyshieldedfromtheviewofeveryone.

Think,Olive.Think. Shedidnothavea lotof time.She couldn’tstandonthetoiletandtrytosendasignalthroughthesmallwindow.Georgewouldhearherscrambling,andcouldpokehisheadinatanytime.Shepulledupherskirt,wriggledherunderpantsdown,andsatonthetoiletseat.

BesideitwasasmallcartwithspecimenbottlesandlabelsandaSharpie,sothatyoucouldwriteyournameontheplastic.

Olivegrabbedthepenandunspooledthetoiletpaper.

Therearesixofusandoneofhim,shewroteacrossthreeofthesquares.Weneedaplan.Thoughts?

She knew that whatever the others plotted, she would be at adisadvantage.Butshealsoknewtolookforasignal.Andtoact.

Olivepulledupherpantiesand flushed the toilet.Sherolled thepaper back up, with the writing carefully tucked in a way that itcouldn’t be seen until it was unspooled. She washed her hands andopenedthedoorandsmiledatGeorge.“There,”shesaid.“Thatwasn’tsobad,wasit?”

—

WHENOLIVECAMEOUTOFthebathroom,Joystoodup,lettingherselfbemanhandledbythatcrazyassholebeforeshesteppedinside.Whileshepeed,shelookedatthepadinherunderpants,whichwassoakedbutnotsoakedthrough,andthiswasagoodthingsinceshedidn’thaveareplacement.Thenshepulledtherolloftoiletpapertoballitupinherhand.

Except,shedidn’t.

Sheread.

ThenshetooktheSharpie,andbegantowrite.

—

JANINEHADHOPEDTHATTHE shooterwouldcuthera littleslack.Forgothepatdown,orletherclosethedoor.Afterall,theybothbelievedinthesamesanctityoflife—evenifhehadaprettybadtrackrecordwiththat at present. Instead, he treated her just like one of the otherwomen.

Janineunraveledthetoiletpaperroll.She lookedat thenotes indifferenthandwriting.Olive’sfirststatement,andthenJoy:Whatifwejumphim?

Shecoulddooneoftwothings,rightnow.Shecouldtakeall thetoilettissueandflushit,sabotagingtheworkoftheotherwomen.Orshe could admit that through a strange twist of fate, her goals hadalignedwiththeirs.

Right now, Janine was not holding a sign with a picture of anunborn child on it. She was not praying for the mothers who werewalkingpasther.Shewas thepersonbeingprayed for.Onanygivenday,shecouldhavetoldyouthat, insidethisclinic, liveswereatrisk.Today,thelifewashers.

ShereachedfortheSharpie.Triphim,shewrote.Andgoforthegun.

—

WHENWRENWASGROWINGUP,shethoughttherewasnothingworsethanhaving amotherwho had actually chosen a life that did not includeher. Her mom still hit the high-water marks—birthday, Christmas—with a card and apresent, usually something fromParis thatwas sonotWren’sstylesheburieditinthebackofhercloset,nothavingthehearttothrowitaway.Hermomhadhintedthat,nowthatWrenwasolder, maybe she wanted to come spend summers in France. Wrenwouldhaverathervacationedonthefrontlinesofawarzone.Shemayhave owed her mother for the nine months she carried her in herwomb,butthatwasit.

Ontheotherhand,iftherewassomedivinepower,HeorShehadmadeupforthelossofhermotherbygivingherafatherwhowasthereforher200percent.Unlikeherfriends,whowerealwayscomplainingthat their parents didn’t get them,Wren actually liked being in herdad’scompany.HewasthefirstpersonshetextedwhenshegotanAonatestshehadbeensureshefailed.Hetoldher,honestly,ifapairofjeansmadeherhipslookwide.Hetaughtheraboutthenightsky.

Her dad was also the person you wanted next to you in anemergency.WhenshewenttoLolaHarding’sbirthdaypartyandafewidiotsweregettingdrunkandakidaccidentallyslicedhishandopencutting limes and everyone was freaking out, Wren had called herfather,who called911 and cameover and took control anddidn’t goballisticandcalleveryone’sparents,butsomehowmanagedtoputthefearofGodintotheguywho’dbroughttheJägermeister.WhenWrenwastenandhad,onadare,triedtoclimbarosetrellisandwoundupinthehospitalwithabrokenleg,herfatherhadsatbesidehertryingtodistractherwhenthepainkillersdidn’t.Pantsweat,hehadsaid,andshe’dbeendistractedenoughtostopcryingandobsessingoverthefactthatshecouldseeherbonethroughthebreakinherskin.Herdadhadtugged at the leg of her sweatpants.There are just some compoundwordsthatyoushouldneverreverse.

Fingerchicken,shehadsaid.

Litterkitty.

Potcoffee.

Allthingsconsidered,shewishedhewashere.Shehadlikedbeingable to text him—itwas thenext best thing.But since she andOlive

hadbeendraggedfromtheirhidingplace,thatwasn’tapossibility.

Exceptnow.Theseconditwasherturntogotothebathroom,shewasgoingtofireupherphoneagainandtellherdadeverythingthatwasgoingon.

Fromwhereshewassittingonthecouch,WrennarrowedhereyesandstaredatGeorge.Hehadbeenonthephonewithherdad,butnowthe phonewas on the receptionist’s counter.He held the gun in hisrighthand.Hewassweating.

Hehadghosteyes,solight,withthepupilsjustpinpricks.Almostlikeyoucouldseerightthroughhim.

AndifthedoctorandIzzywereright,hehadadaughter.Thatmayeven have been the reason he’d come here. Wren knew better thananyonethatyoucouldn’tchooseyourparents,butshewonderedwhatit would be like if she had grown up with this man, instead of herfather.

Shewonderedwhathisdaughterwasthinkingrightnow.

Suddenly he was waving the gun in her face. “What are youwaitingfor?”hesaid.“Getmoving.”

She stood and held up her bound hands. “I can’t … youknow…likethis.”

Foranawfulsecondshe thoughthewasgoing to tellher todealwithit.Thenhescrabbledatherwrists,feelingfortheedgeofthetape,andunraveledher.Wrenfeltbloodfloodtoherhands;sheshookthemathersides.“Donot,”hesaid,“doanythingstupid.”

Wren nodded, but she had a feeling that what she thought wasstupidandwhathethoughtwasstupidweretwoverydifferentthings.

Thedoorwasleftopen.Shesatdownonthetoiletlidandfishedinher sock for her phone. Olive hadmanaged to turn it off, so that itwouldn’t keep buzzing. When she powered it up again, though, itwouldmakeanoise.Wrenreachedtowardthesinkandbegantorunthewatertomaskit.

She held her breath, muffling the phone against her shirt. Shewaitedforasignal,sothatshecouldtextherfather.

Noservice.

Thatmadenosense;she’dhada full signalwhenshewas in the

closet.Andherphonehadbuzzedwhenshewastakenintothewaitingroom, before Olive had turned it off for her. Wren fiddled with thecellularsettings.ShetriedtofindaWi-Finetwork.

Nothing.

Whenheraunthadbeenshot,Wrenhadturnedintoastatue.Shehadn’tbeenable tomove.Sheprobablywouldhave stood there, justwaiting to be killed, if Olive hadn’t dragged her into the closet. Herhearthadbeenpoundingsohardshethoughtitwouldbreakthecageofherribs.Shehadneverbeensoscaredinherlife,andeverytimesheclosed her eyes, she saw that bright banner of blood unfurl onAuntBex’schest.Butbeingabletotextherfather—knowingherfatherwasrightontheothersideofthatbrickwall—well,ithadtetheredWrentosanity.

Nowthatwasgone.

Whatifshenevergotoutofthisclinic?Shewasfifteenyearsold.She hadn’t had sex. She hadn’t gone to prom. She hadn’t smoked ajointorpulledanall-nighter.

Herdadwasalwaystellinghertobecareful—thathesawfartoomany mangled car wrecks or drunk drivers who were teens whothought theywere invincible.Maybe it sounded ridiculous, given thefactthatshehadbeenjerkedoutoftheclosetandhadagunpointedatherface,but forthefirst timeWrennowreallyunderstoodshecoulddie.

Afreshwaveofterrorsettledoverher,andshestartedtoshake.

She grabbedonehandwith the other. She closedher eyes tight,andtriedtoimagineeverydetailofherfather’sface.

Ifherdadwerehere,he’dtellhertotakeadeepbreath.He’dsay,Makesureyou’resafe.Makesureeveryoneelseis,too.

He’dsay,…

He’dsay,…

Bedwater,shethought.

Sheletatinysmileslipoutfrominsidethatknotoffear.

Wayhigh.

Papertoilet.

Forthefirsttimesinceshehadbeeninthebathroom,shelookedatthetoiletpaperroll.Shesawthemessagethread,andbegantoread.

“Whatthehellistakingyousolong?”Georgesaid,andheyankedopenthedoor.Wrendidthefirstthingshecouldthinkof.Shedroppedherphoneinthetoilet,alongwiththepaperinherfist.“I’mal-almostdone,”shestammered.

HisfacerecededandWrendoubledover.Shestoodupandfishedforherphoneinthebowl,butitwasruined.Thenagain,ithadn’tbeenworkinganywayand itwasbetter tohave ithiddenthanonher—sheknewfromwatchingtheothersthattheyhadreceivedpatdownsfromGeorge when they left the bathroom, too. Holding the device by adripping corner, she lifted the toilet tank cover and hid the phoneinside.

She looked down at the soggymess of toilet paper in her hand.Thephonehaddrippedonit,andthemarkerhadbledillegibly.Wrentosseditintothetoiletandthenwroteontheroll,succinctly,whatIzzywouldneedtoknow.Sheandthedoctorweretheonlyoneswhohadn’tgonetothebathroomyet,andthedoctorprobablycouldn’tevengettohisfeet.Wecantakehimdown.Triphim.Goforthegun.Everyone’sin.

Sherolledthewordsbackup,flushedthetoilet,rinsedherhands,andsteppedoutside.

Georgewaswaiting,tappingthegunagainsthisthigh.Shefeltlostwithoutherphone.Untethered.

Shecouldrememberaskingherdadoncewhathappenedduringaspacewalkifanastronautbecameuntetheredfromthespacecraft.Heexplained that they wore backpacks they could fire up, with jets topropel them back to the vehicle. They were called Simplifed Aid forEVARescue.SAFER.

Shetookasteptowardthecouch,feelingtheshooter’seyesonher.

“Didyouforgetsomething?”hesaid.

Wren drew in her breath and shook her head.Had he seen herholdingthephone?

Georgegrabbedherbythewristandpulledhertowardtheothers.“Tapeherup,”heorderedIzzy.

“I’m sorry,” Izzy said. The tape roll went around twice, threetimes. Then Izzy tried to tear it.When that didn’t work, she leanedforward,herhairfallingoverherfaceandWren’swristsasshebittheedgeofthetapewithherteeth.

Izzy looked up, catching Wren’s eye for a moment. Then sheturnedtoGeorge.“Ibelieveit’smyturn?”

Wren stumbled back to the couch, gingerly sitting down besideOliveagain.Shegentlysettledherboundhandsinherlapandlookeddown at them. Clasped between her palms was a scalpel Izzy hadmanagedtopasstoher,withatiny,lethalblade.

—

DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED. THE WORDS CHASED themselves aroundGeorge’smind.WhatifLilhadheardthat?Sheknewthathehadbeenin the army—and she also knew that he didn’t like to talk about histimethere.Butshit,neitherdidanyonewhohadseencombat.

He had been in Bosnia, stationed in a hellhole where he wassupposed tobe keeping thepeacebut evenheknew, earlydays as itwas,thattherewasnowaytheycouldwinthisone.Ithadbeentheendofa longdayattheendofa longweekandhewasdrinkingatabar.He’dgoneoutsidetotakeapissandhadheardawoman’sscream.

He should have ignored it. But he thought about his wife, backhome,andinsteadroundedthecornertofindtwomenholdingdownaMuslimwoman.No,makethatagirl,aMuslimgirl.Shecouldn’thavebeenmorethantwelve.Heassumed,giventheethnicconflict,thatthemenwereSerbs,buttheyalllookedalike.Oneheldhishandoverhermouth and pinned her shoulders, the otherwas vigorously pumpingbetweenherthighs.

Georgepulledhimoff, sendinghimsprawling into thedust.Hisfriend came after George, who landed a solid punch. The manstaggered and fell, his head smacking against the curb. George wasdimlyawarethatthegirlhadscrambledoff.Therapistgottohisfeetand came toward George, who leveled his weapon. By then, thecommotion had drawn a crowd. What they saw was an AmericansoldierholdingaCroatiancivilianatgunpoint,whileasecondcivilianbledtodeathathisfeet.

Hewas court-martialed.He explained that he had interrupted arape, but the girl’s family insisted that she had not been sexually

assaulted.Andwhywouldtheyadmitshehad,sinceitwouldmakeherforeverunmarriageableintheirculture?Instead,therewastestimonyfromthebystanderswhohadseenGeorgepointingagunwildlyatamanwhohadfallentothegroundwithhishandsup.

George was convicted of manslaughter, and dishonorablydischarged,goddammit,fordoingtherightthing.

When he came home he had a wife who didn’t understand hisangerandababywhoscreamedall thetime,andhecouldn’tgetanysleep.Hegotfiredfromhisjobandmaybedrankmorethanheshould.Onenight,whenhefellasleeponthecouch,Gretahadleanedoverhimtowakehimupbuthehadbeendreamingandsaw instead thatgirl,the Muslim girl, and he grabbed her by the throat with all hisfrustration.Why didn’t you tell them the truth? I saved you. Whydidn’tyousaveme?

It wasn’t until Greta started to go slack beneath him that herealizedwherehewas,whohewas.Whenhelethergo,sherantothebedroomandlockedthedoor.Hebeggedforforgiveness.Hepromisedhe’dgo tocounseling.Shedidn’tanswer, just stayedaway fromhim,wearinganecklaceofbruises.Whenhecalledhernamethenextday,shejumpedinfear.Shedideverythingshecouldtoavoidhim.Georgetook tosleeping in thebaby’s room,becauseheknewGretawouldn’tleavewithoutLil.

Untilonenightshedid.

Heglancedupatthetelevisionscreen.Itwasdarknow,turnedoffat his command—but he could still hear the words of the reporterringing in his head. Dishonorable discharge is reserved for themilitary’smost reprehensible conduct, theman had said.Desertion,sexualassault,murder…egregiousviolence.

Egregiousviolence.

George felt sweat trickle down his back.He pulled at his collar.Egregiousfuckingviolence.Therewasnothingegregiousaboutit.Theydidn’t knowwhatwent down inBosnia. They didn’t realize it hadn’tbeenGreta’sfacehesawthatnight,whenhetriedtostrangleher.Theydidn’tunderstandwhathadhappenedtoLilthathadledhimhere.

Hecouldnothearanythingexceptthatreporter’svoice,ringinginhis ears. “Egregious violence,” George muttered. “This is egregiousviolence,”hesaid,andheslammedhisbootintotheinjuredlegofthe

doctor.

WhenGeorge’shearingreturned,itwaswiththeman’sscream.

—

THEGUNMANWASOUTOFcontrol.Hewasmutteringtohimself;hehadstomped on Dr. Ward’s leg. Izzy bent down over the poor man,soothing,tryingtodosomething—anything—tostaveoffthepain.Dr.Wardwasshivering,sweating,inshock.Thefalsecomfortofthestatusquo had been shredded, and what would happen next was anyone’sguess.

SheglancedoveratWren.Thegirlhadhereyesscrewedshutasifshewastryingtowillthisintoanightmare,insteadofreality.Shemuststillbeholdingthescalpel.Izzyhadknownshehadtogetridof itassoon as she saw the shooter doing full body checks before and aftereachwomanwenttothebathroom.

She blotted Dr. Ward’s forehead with a strip of gauze. On thepretense ofministering tohim, she said loudly, “Ssh, it’s all right. Itwillhelpifyoufocusonsomethingelserightnow…”Izzylookedup,asthe other women turned at the sound of her voice. She made eyecontactwitheachoftheminturn.“Thinkofanicebeachmaybe.Downon theGulf Coast. I don’t get down there verymuchmyself, butmyboyfriendandI,wekeeptalkingabouttakingatrip.”

If the shooter noticed that she stressed that lastword, he didn’tshowit.

There was a charged moment of silence. They had all read themissive in the bathroom, but there hadn’t been an explicit plan ofaction.

SuddenlyJoygrabbedherbellyandjackknifedforward.“Ow,”shemoaned. “It hurts. It hurts like crazy.” She began rocking back andforth.

“Shut her up,” the shooter commanded. He turned to Izzy. “Dosomething.”

IzzymovedtowardJoy.“Doyoustillfeelthepain?”

“Yes,”Joysaid,squeezingIzzy’shandthreetimes.Asign.“Rightnow.”Shescreamed.

“Shutherup,”Georgesaid.“ShutheruporI’ll…”

Hesteppedforward,eithertothreatenortocoldcockher,butashedidJaninestretchedoutafoot.

Justlikethat,GeorgeGoddardwentsprawling.

—

NOWNOWNOWNOWNOW.

Wrenwatchedhimtrip,andwhenhedid,hedroppedthegun.

Whenshewasvery little, sheused to imaginewhat itwould feelliketofly.Onwindydaysshewouldunzipherraincoatandspreadherarmsandleapintotheairandknow,justknow,thatshewasairborneforanextraheartbeat.

Now,sheflew.

SheleapedoffofthecouchanddoveforthegunatthesametimeGeorgedid.Herhandswerestilltiedsoshewentdownlikeastoneandwriggled on her elbows. Itwas a tenth of a second and, at the sametime,aneternity.Shefeltherfingertipsgrazethebarrelofthegunandheknockeditawayfromher.

Wrenraisedherboundhandsandslammedthemdownashardasshecouldintohisoutstretchedpalm.

He howled, and the scalpel stuck deep in his flesh, sliding frombetweenWren’spalms.

“Youbitch,”hecried.Heyankedthebladefromhishandandthengrabbedthegun.

Wrencouldn’tgetup.Herhandswerestill tied—theangleof thescalpel,whenshehadheldit,hadmadeit impossibletocutthetape,althoughshehadtried likehell.Shescootedbackwardonthecarpet,slippinginthefreshbloodfromDr.Ward’sinjury.Inthatmomentallshecouldseewastheshooter’sred,redeyesandthetwistofhisfaceandhisthumbpullingbackthetrigger.Shewonderedifitwouldhurt,whenshereturnedtostardust.

—

WHATWEKNOW,OLIVECOULDtellyou,isnotwhatwethinkweknow.

Oneyear,shehadrunapsychologicalstudyinwhichshetoldhercollegiate subjects that scientists haddiscovered a chemical that hadantiagingbenefits.Whentoldthatthescientistsdidn’treallyknowhow

that worked yet, the students reported not understanding how theantiaging effects occurred. But when told that scientists had figuredout themethodology, the students reported an understanding of theprocess—evenwithoutbeinggiventhedetails.

Itwas almost as if knowledgewas contagious.People constantlyclaimedto“know”somethingwhentheydidn’thavethefactsandtoolstoupholdtheirclaims.

Maybe for this reason, she’d thought that at this moment, shewould be reliving the high-watermarks of her life, thememories ofloveandjoyandjustice.Shethoughtshewouldseeherfirstkisswithagirlmadeofmoonlightinalakeatsummercamp;orherlastkisswithPeg, when each put a bookmark in her readingmaterial and curledtowardtheotherlikeparenthesesbeforetheyturnedoutthelight.

Olivethought,andthereinlaythemistake.

Whenitcamedowntoit,attheend,youdidnotthink.Youfelt.

Whatdidshefeel?

Thatyouwillneverceasetounderestimateyourself.

Thatloveisfleeting.

Thatlifeisamiracle.

That the reason she had come to this clinic, on this day, at thishour,wasthis.

Actingpurelyoninstinct,OliveLeMaythrewherselfinfrontofthebullet.

T

Twop.m.

HESUNLIGHTWASOVERWHELMING.

Izzywatcheditglintoffthesilverbarsofthewheelchair.Shewas temporarily blinded and then forced herself to put one foot infrontof theother, topushthewheelsover the thresholdof theclinicdoor.

It wasn’t just the sunlight, though—it was cameras and shoutedquestionsassomeoneemergedfromthebellyofthebeast.Izzyfroze,unsureofwheretogoandwhattodo.

She was supposed to wheel Bex outside, and then walk backthroughthosedoors.Butitwouldbesoeasytosaveherself.

She could lean forward, low and dynamic, and run. She couldbringBextotheambulanceandleapinsideandreally,whatcouldtheshooterdo?

Hervisionclearedasamansteppedforward.Insilhouettehewastallandbroad-shouldered,andforjustamomentshethought:Parker.ButIzzywasnottheonebeingrescuednow,andanyway,inherfairytale,shewasstillafraidthatanymomenttheprincemightrealizeshewasjustapoorvillager,posingasaprincess.

Thehostagenegotiatorheldoutahandandbeckonedherforward.

Shefeltlikeshewassuspendedbetweenwhatcouldbe,andwhatwas.Justlikealways.

It was thatway for all peoplewho grew up poor, she imagined.Izzy had vividmemories of her birthday being celebrated twoweeksafterthefact,becausethat’swhentheycouldaffordaboxofcakemix.Ofalwaysaddingwatertothemilktostretchit.Ofbeinggiddywhenthe food stamps came in and you could go to the grocery store; andbeingashamedwhenyouhadtoactuallyusethemtopay.

When Izzy was in first grade, her family couldn’t afford schoolsupplies,soshepretendedthatshehadforgottenthemathome.Thenoneday,whensheopenedher little flip-topdesk, therewasabrand-

new box of Crayola crayons. They were still pointy at the top andsmelledlikewaxandhadasharpenerontheback.Izzyhadnoideaifitwasherteacherwho’dgiventhemtoher,andsheneverfoundout.Butshedidrealize,then,thatherfamilywasdifferentfromotherfamilies.Mostkidsdidn’tgotoSam’sClubfor lunchwhenyouweren’tevenamember, because you could make the rounds for free samples.Ketchup sandwiches, with packets stolen from McDonald’s, weren’tnormal.Hermother rummaged throughherbrothers’backpacksandthrew out the flyers for the Scholastic Book Club, for field trips, fordances, for anything that was an additional expense.When they atedinner, Izzy would pretend to be full because she knew her motherwouldn’thaveanyfoodifshedidn’tleavesomebehindonherplate.

Assheworkedthroughhighschool,shewasdeterminedtohaveadifferent life. She couldn’t afford an SAT prep course, so she askedanother student for the syllabus, and then got books throughinterlibrary loans and taught herself. She applied for more than ahundred scholarships that she found online using the library’s freeInternet. She didn’t get them all. But she got enough for a freeeducation.

Shewenttonursingschoolonstudentloansandshescrimpedandsaved.

AndthenshemetParker—whohadtakenheronherfirstvacation.

Whocouldn’tbelievethatshe’dnevergonetoadoctorgrowingup—onlytheschoolnurse,whodidn’trequireinsurance.

Who had found her adding water to the shampoo so it lastedlonger.

Whohadproposed,inspiteofallthis.

If shehad toldParkerabout thepregnancy,hewouldhavebeenthrilled. He would have used it as leverage, to make her say yes,insteadofIneedmoretime.

Butthenshewouldneverstandonherowntwofeetfinancially.Orpayoffherownnursingschoolloans.Orbuyahouse,justbecauseshehadthecredittodoit.Andshecouldnotgethimtounderstandwhythatwassoimportant.

Themanwhowasbeckoningtoherwaswavinghisarms,tryingtogethertostartmovingagain.Ifsheran,now,shecouldsaveherself.

IzzyfeltBexreachforherhand.Shecouldimaginetheeffortandpainthatcostthewoman,andshegentlylacedherfingerswithBex’sandsqueezed.Sheleaneddown.“You’regoingtobefine,”shesaid.Shedrewadeepbreath,andtookanotherlongstepforward.

Once, when her brothers had been fighting over who got morespaghetti fordinner,hermotherhadsaid,Youdon’t lookatanotherperson’splatetoseeiftheyhavemorethanyou.Youlooktoseeiftheyhaveenough.

IzzythoughtofDr.Ward,bleedingonthefloor,stillinside.Sheletgoofthehandlesofthewheelchair,turned,andranbacktothegapingmouthoftheclinicdoor.

—

BEXCOULDTELLTHEMOMENTHughrealizedthatshewasthewomaninthewheelchair.Hetookastepforward,andasifthathadtriggeredit,Izzyturnedandran.

Bexcouldn’t speak.Hereyes filledwith tearsasHughstarted torun toward her, but before he could reach her side, the paramedicswerethere,hoistingBexoutofthewheelchairandontoagurneyandloadingherintoanambulance.Shetwisted,tryingtoseeHugh,tryingtoreachherhandtowardhim.Butshewassurroundedbypeoplewhowereproddingandpokingandshoutingateachother.

What if shegot takenoff to thehospitalbeforeshecould talk toHugh?

“What’syourname,ma’am?”anEMTasked.

“Bex.”

“Bex,we’regoingtotakecareofyou.”

Shegrabbedathisarm.“Needto…tell…”

“We’ll contact your family as soon as we get you settled at thehospital—”

Bexshookherhead.Thedoubledoorsstarted toclose,andthensuddenlysheheardHugh’svoice.“Ihavetospeaktoher,”hesaid.

“AndIhavetogethertoanOR.”

She, who knew his face better than perhaps anyone, saw thestruggleetchedinhisfeatures—thedesiretoconnectwithherwarring

withthedeterminationtogethertreated.

“Hugh,”shemanaged.“Need…”

Heturned,sendingherawarninginhisgaze.“Youneedtotellmesomething,ma’am?”HughglancedattheEMT.“I’llneedamomentofprivacy,”hesaid,dismissingtheparamedic,andthentheywerealone.

Sheswallowed,emotiondammingall thewordsshehad thoughtshe might never get a chance to say to Hugh. “Bex,” he moaned,leaningcloser,tryingtofigureouthowtoembraceherandsettlingforfoldinghishandsaroundherown.“Areyouallright?”

“Been…better,”shesaid.“Wren…”

“Isinthere,”Hughfinished.“Iknow.Isshe…”

“Alive.Hiding.”

Asmallsobescaped,andhisheadbentuntilhishairbrushedhercheek. Bex looked at him and saw the shadow of Hugh as a boy:jackknifed with grief when his dog was hit by a car, frustrated by acalculusproblemset,furiouswhenhedidn’tmakethevarsityfootballteam.Shewantedtoreachoutandpullhimintoherarmslikesheusedto; to tell him that tomorrowwouldbe easier, but she couldn’t. Thistime,shewasthecauseofhispain.

“Nobodyknows,”hesaid,hisvoiceawhisper.“Nobodycanknow.Doyouunderstandthat?Ifitgetsoutthatmydaughterisinside,I’moff the case. I have no control over the outcome here. Period.” Hestareddownather,hiseyesdarkwithpain.“Why,Bex?Whydidyoubringherhere?”

She thought of Wren—the way she smiled and raised her righteyebrow, likeshehadasecret;howshepaintedhernails indifferentcolors because she could never pick just one; the time shereprogrammed all the SiriusXM radio channels in Bex’s car afterdecreeingthatherauntneededtomovepasttheeighties.“Sheasked.”

Hugh’s hands bit into her skin. She knew he was fighting tomaintain control. “Wren needed … she had to have …” He couldn’tforcethewordsfromhisthroat.

“No!”Bexsaid.“Birthcontrol.She…didn’twantyou…toknow.”

Heclosedhiseyes.

Were some betrayals kinder than others? Bex searched his face,

waitingforashimmerofforgiveness.

Before she could find it, however, the EMT had reappeared.“Lieutenant?”hesaid.“Areyoufinished?”

Werethey?

Bexwilledhimtospeak.Toabsolveherofblame.

Instead,heletgoofherhands,jumpedoutoftheambulance,andshutthedoors.

—

ITFELTLIKE IT TOOK ahundredyears for Izzy to run the last fivestepsback to the clinic door. She forcedherself to stare at the black seamthat separated freedom from captivity, until a hand reached out andgrabbedherbyherbraid,yankingherinsideagain.

George letgoofher longenoughtocloseand lock thedoor,pilethe furniturebackagainst it. “Smartgal,”Georgesaid. “Ifyouhadn’tcomebackhere,well,whoknowshowangryImighthavegot.”

Izzy’s head swam. She could still smell the pavement, baking intheafternoonheat.Shecouldseethenecksofallthecamerastrainedonherasshewalkedawayfromtheclinicdoor.ShecouldhearBex’sshallowbreathingastheywentovereachcrackinthesidewalk.

Whatkindofidiottastesfreedomandspitsitout?

She heard a groan behind her and turned to find Dr. Ward’swoundtricklingblood.IzzymetGeorge’sgaze.“CanI…?”

Henodded,andshegottoherkneesbesideDr.Ward,unwrappingthe soaked tourniquet to replace it with a fresh one. As soon as thepressure was relaxed, blood poured from the wound. Izzy wonderedhowlongshehadbeforesheneededtobegtheshootertoletDr.Wardgetrealmedicalattention.ShehadafeelingitwasdifferentfromBex;thatGeorgewouldsee thedoctor’sdeathnotas regrettablecollateraldamage,butasrevenge.

WithquickefficiencyshebegantotightenthemakeshiftbandageagainbyusingtheSharpieasawindingkey.Shesecureditintoplacewithtape.Dr.Wardgroanedwhenshemovedhis limb,andshetriedto distract him with banter. “You know, when I was a kid and mybrotherbrokehisarm,Ijustsplinteditandtoldhimtousetheotherone.”

“Where I grewupwewere sopoorwedidn’t evenhavewood tomakeasplint,”Dr.Wardsaid.

Izzy smiled a little. “Pretty sure I had the flu for whole year,becausewecouldn’taffordatriptothepediatrician.”

“Weonlywent to the dentist if a cavitywas so bad itmade youthrowup.”

“And braces,” Izzy said. “They might as well have been toothjewelry.”

Dr.Wardofferedawobblysmile.“Girl,Iknowwhatyou’redoingandyoucan’tusemyownmedicineonme.”

“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout.”

“Yougetme talking todistractme fromwhat’s reallyhappeningdowntherewithmyleg.”

“Youknowwhat’shappeningdownthere,”Izzysaid.

“Yeah,”hesighed.“Ifit’smuchlonger,Icouldloseit.”

Izzy tried not to think about that. More important, she had tomake Dr. Ward not think about that. “You talk like you’re my onlypatient.”ShejerkedherchintowardJanine,stillunconsciousfromtheblowGeorgehadgivenherwiththebuttofthegun.“Anychange?”

“No,”Dr.Wardsaid,sobering.“I’vebeenwatching.”

Izzymadeasmallnoiseinthebackofherthroat.“Well,”shesaid,“Iwouldn’tmindifshestaysunconscious.”

Dr.Wardfrowned.“DoyouknowIonlyoncerefusedtoperformanabortion?”

“Wasitforapro-lifeprotester?”Izzyasked.

Hehesitated,thenshookhishead.“Itwasaracist.Awomancameinandsawmeandsaidshepreferredawhitedoctor.Problemwas,Iwastheonlypersondoingproceduresthatday,andshecouldn’twaitanylongertohaveitdone.”

Izzysatbackonherheels.“Whathappened?”

“Ihavenoidea.Evenaftershedecidedmyskincolormatteredlessthanher getting that abortion, I saidno. Iwas self-aware enough toknow that I had to treat myself like an impaired physician. I was

intoxicated with anger, the same way I would have been if I hadswiggedafifthofgin.Icouldn’ttouchheranymorethanIwouldhavetouched a patient if I were drunk. What if she was uncomfortableduring the procedure? Shemight think I was intentionally trying tocause her pain because of what she’d said. And what if there was acomplication,anditreinforcedherbeliefsthatIwaslessthanqualifiedbecauseofmyskincolor?”Heshookhishead.“LikeDr.Kingsaid:Itmaybetruethatthelawcannotmakeamanloveme,butitcankeephimfromlynchingme,andIthinkthat’sprettyimportant.”

“I would think that when it comes to abortion, race is the lastthingonanyone’smind.”

Dr.Wardglancedup,surprised.“Why,MissIzzy.Whenitcomestoabortion,raceisfirstandforemostineveryone’sminds.”HenoddedtowardJanine.“She’stheanomaly,youknow.Theaverageanti-choiceprotesteris”—heloweredhisvoice—“amiddle-agedCaucasianmale.”

IzzylookedatGeorgeGoddard.Hewaspolishingtheshaftofhisgun with the hem of his shirt. They’d heard him talk about hisdaughter; they knewhe had somepersonal connection to this clinic.But surely that wasn’t true of every protester who fit that profile.“Why?”

“Becausethey’retryingtomakeAmericawhiteagain.”

“Butmorewomenofcolorhaveabortionsthanwhitewomen—”

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t care about the fertility of blackwomen.They’reusingthem,thewayblackwomenhavebeenusedforcenturies,tofurtherawhiteagenda.You’veseenthoseblackgenocidebillboards?”

Izzyhad.TheysproutedonthehighwaysintheDeepSouth.Theyshowedapictureofabeautifullittleblackbabyandaslogan:THEMOSTDANGEROUSPLACEFORANAFRICANAMERICANIS INTHEWOMB.ApictureofPresidentObamaand thewordsEVERY 21MINUTES OUR NEXT POTENTIALLEADERISABORTED.

“Whitepeoplearetheoneswhoputupthoseup.Raceisn’texactlyawalkintheparkinthiscountry,”Dr.Wardsaid.“Iftheantisframetheiroppositiontochoiceasantiracism, it looks like they’re tryingtohelp black women. But a law that keeps black women from havingabortionsalsokeepswhitewomenfromhavingthem.Theonlypersonwhocangivebirthtoawhitebabyisawhitewoman.Thosesamewhite

womenareworkingoutside thehomeandbucking traditional familyvalues,andby2050whiteswillbeintheminority.Whenyoulookatitlikethat,it’salittleclearerwhothosebillboardsarereallybenefiting.”HelookedatIzzy’sexpressionandsmiledalittle.“YouthinkI’velosttoomuchblood.”

“No.No.Ijustneverthoughtofthatbefore.”

Dr.Ward leaned back against the frame of the couch. “It’sall Ithink about.”He glanced at her tourniquet. “You are one damn finenurse.”

“Stopflirtingnow.”

“You’realittleskinnyandpaleformytastes,”hejoked.

“Well,toobad.You’reaunicorn—asmartguywhoisn’tthreatenedbywomen.IthinkyoumightbethebiggestfeministI’veevermet.”

“YoubetIam.Ilovewomen.Allwomen.”

IzzycutaglancetowardJanine,stillpassedoutonthefloor.“Allwomen?”

“All women,” Dr. Ward repeated. “And you should, too.” HeturnedtoIzzy.“Likeitornot,you’reinthisfighttogether.”

—

WRENHADN’TCOMEHEREFORanabortion.ThenumbingreliefHughfeltknowing that was eclipsed by the truth that shewas still being heldhostage,becauseshewantedtogetbirthcontrol.

Butshehadn’twantedhimtoknow.

Hughwouldhavetakenher,ifshehadjustasked.

Whyhadn’tsheasked?WhyhadshegonetoBex?Whyhadn’thissisterconfidedinhim?

HeknewBexhadbeen looking formercy, forHugh to say,Thiswasn’tyourfault.Buthehadn’tbeenabletodoit.Becauseifitwasn’tBex’s fault thatWren was in there, then Hugh had to admit that itmightbehisown.

Hewouldn’thaveflownoffthehandle,ifWrenhadcometohim.Itwasn’tinhisDNA.Infacthewassogoodatplasteringhisemotionswithathicklayerofcalmthatittooksomeonewhohadknownhimallhislifetoknowtherewerecracksbeneaththesurface.WhenAnnabelle

leftHugh,shehadslappedhimtoseeifshecouldgetariseoutofhim.Hugh had toldBex, afterward.She said no one could blame her forleaving me for someone with human emotions, he’d said. He hadrestedhiselbowsonhiskneesandburiedtheheelsofhishandsinhiseyes.Thethingis,ifyousawthestuffIdoeverydayonthejob,you’ddoanythingtonotfeel.

Bex.HowthehellcouldBexhavebroughthisdaughterhere?

Heknewtheanswertothat.Whathissisterhadenvisionedwasafreeclinic,ahalf-hourappointment,andaprescriptionforthePill.Theonly person who would get hurt in this scenario was Hugh, for notbeing in the know. Bex hadn’t thought about protesters or gunmen.She wouldn’t have, swimming in the back of her consciousness,statistics of violence at other women’s health clinics. Only someonewho had been doing what Hugh had been doing for years wouldassumetheworstcouldhappen.

The thing was, the worst hadn’t happened… yet. Bex was safe,now.AndWrenwouldbe,nomatterwhatitcosthim.

Beyondthecommandtent,thereportershadformedaline,eachfacedbyacameraman,liketheywerearrangedforsomecourtlydance.Hughheardtheclosestreporterspoutabsoluteandtotalbullshittofilluptimeonalivefeed.“Thequestion,ofcourse,”thereportersaid,“iswhere did the gun come from? Who sold him the gun? It’s worthremembering that a dishonorable dischargemay be amilitary courtruling,but it’sstilla felony,andforGoddardtohaveagunwouldbeillegal—”

Hughclosedhiseyes.Hepushedawaythevoicesofthereportersand thoughts ofBex andWrenhiding froma lunaticwith a gun.Nodistractions,hetoldhimself.Nodistractions.

He dialed his phone, and George picked up on the third ring.“Thatwasgreat,”Hughsaid.“Youreleasedsomeonewhoreallyneededhelp.IknewyouandIcouldworktogether.”Hughwipedhisforehead.Itwashotterthanhell.

“I’mnotworkingwithyou,”Georgesaid.“You’reafuckingcop.”

Hughclosedhiseyes.ItwasgoingtobeconsiderablyworsewhentheSWATteamarrived,whichcouldbeanyminutenow.Whichmeanthehadlimitedtimetowoohishostagetaker.

“I’m a negotiator,” Hugh corrected. “You’re the only reason I’mhere.”

Heforcedhimselftoblockoutthepeoplearoundhim—emergencypersonnelandmedia.Ifhewasgoingtodohisjob,hehadtocreateaspace thatwas justhim,George,andnooneelse. Itwasaseduction,andHughwouldsayanythinghehadtoinordertoreachtheendgame.

“Look,” Hugh said, “a lot of these guys out here, they makeassumptions.Notme. Iknowyou’resmart.The fact thatyou let thatwomangetmedicalattentionprovesit.”

Thatwoman.

AsifBexhadn’tbasicallyraisedhimafterhisfatherdiedandhismotherstarteddrinking.

He hesitated, waiting to see if Georgewould take the bait. “Arethereothersinsidewhoneedhelp?”

“I’mnotlettinganyoneelsego.”

“Thiscouldbeawin-win,George.Iftherearemorepeopleintherewithyouwhoarehurt,andyousendthemoutside,thenyoudon’thaveto worry about them … and it makes you look compassionate toeveryoneouthere.”

A young detective tappedHugh on the shoulder. She held up acellphone.“Hispastor,”thedetectivewhispered.

Hugh nodded and held up a finger for her to wait a moment.“George,isanyoneelseintherehurt?”

“WhyshouldItellyou?”

“Becauseyouopenedthedoor,andIkeptmypromise.Iwaited.Ididn’trushtheclinicandstormin.Youcantrustme.”

“Todowhat?Screwmeoverintheend?”

ThedetectivescribbledonapieceofpaperandwaveditbeneathHugh’snose.BORNAGAIN.

“No. To do unto others as you would have them do unto you,”Hughsaid.

“YouaChristian?”

“Yes,”Hughsaid,althoughhewasn’tareligiousmanatall. “Are

you?”

HecouldhearGeorge’sbreathing.“Notanymore.”

Hugh looked down at the piece of paper that the detective hadhandedhim.“Godwillforgiveyouforwhatyou’vedone,George.”

“WhatmakesyouthinkI’llforgiveHim?”Georgesaid,andthelinewentdead.

Hughgrabbedthecellphonefromthedetective.“HughMcElroy,”hesaid.“WhoamIspeakingto?”

“Pastor Mike Kearns,” a man replied. “I lead the Eternal LifeChurchupinDenmark.”

“Thanks for calling, Pastor. I understand you know GeorgeGoddard?”

“George used to be our church handyman. Landscaping,carpentry,younameit.Idon’tthinkthere’sanythinghecan’tfix.”

“Whendidhestopworkingforyou?”

“Six months ago, give or take?” Shame crept into the pastor’svoice.“Wehadsomestormdamageandthebudgetgottight.Now,wehavevolunteersdoingwhatGeorgeusedtodo.”

“Haveyoubeenwatchingthenewstoday,Pastor?”

“No,I’vebeenofficiatingatafuneral—”

“GeorgeGoddardshotup theWomen’sCenter inJacksonand iscurrentlyholdingseveralhostages.”

“What?No.No,thatisn’tthemanIknow.”

Hugh didn’t have time for this man’s existential crisis. “Did heexhibitanyviolenttendencieswhenyouemployedhim?”

“George?Never.”

“Washepro-life?”

“Well,” the pastor said, “our congregation believes in protectingtherightsoftheunborn—”

“Enoughtokillpeopletogetyourmessageheard?”

Thepastordrewinhisbreath.“Idon’tappreciatebeingtried formyfaith,Officer—”

“Lieutenant. LieutenantMcElroy. And I don’t appreciate peoplewhowaltzintoaclinicandstartkillinginnocentbystanders.”

“Killing?MyGod.”

“YoucanhaveHim,”Hughsaidunderhisbreath.“Listen,Pastor,I don’t mean to attack you. But there are people in that clinic whomightdie.AnythingyoucantellmeaboutGeorgeGoddardthatcouldhelp me understand him and his motivations would be greatlyappreciated.”

“Imethima littleover fifteenyearsago,”PastorMike said. “Heshowedup one night in the church, carrying his baby. Shewas sick,feverish.Hiswifewasgone.”

“Dead?”

“No.Shelefthim,butheneverwouldsaywhy.”

Hugh’s mind began to turn, mixing possibilities. Had she runbecauseherhusbandwasviolent?Hadhestolenthebabyandlefther?Wasshestillalivesomewhere?

“Doyouknowhername?”Hughsaid,pullingthecapofapenoffwithhisteeth.

“No,” the pastor said. “He wouldn’t even speak of her. It wasalwaysjustGeorgeandLil.”

“Lil?”

“Hisdaughter.Goodgirl.Usedtosinginthechurchchoir.”

AllHugh had known about George’s daughter was that she hadcomehereforanabortion.Butnow,healsoknewhername.Hughheldhishandoverthespeakerofthephone.“LilGoddard,”hebarkedattheyoungdetective.“Findher.”

—

HUGHKNEWALLTHEWAYStofindsomeonewhodidn’twanttobefound.Youlookedatbankrecordsandcreditcardreceiptsandphonerecords.You followed aliases and money trails. The primary advantage adetectivehadwasthathewaspursuingatruth,whilethepersonhidingwaslivingalie.Truthtendstogleam,liketheglintofapenny.Lies,ontheotherhand,areaseriesofloops—eventuallytheywilltripyouup.

It had been the car radio that tipped him off. He had taken

Annabelle’sminivan to get the registration renewed and on the waypunchedatthefivepreprogrammedradiobuttonstofindNPR.Therewas an oldies station, an acoustic station that alwaysmade him feellikehe’dnodoffatthewheel,aclassicalmusicchannel,andonethatplayednonstopDisneytunesforWren.TheNPRstation,however,hadbeenreprogrammedtoacountrystation.

Hughhadpunchedthroughthebuttonsagain.True,hewasrarelyinthiscar,butAnnabellehatedcountrymusic.

Hecouldstill rememberher lyingwithherhead inhis lapwhentheyweredating,tellinghimthatwhatshehatedmostabouttheDeepSouthwastheconstantbarrageofsongsaboutmenwithtrucks,menwithcheatingwives,menwithcheatingwivesintrucks.

Hugh had reset the radio channel to NPR, got his wife’s carregistration,hadtheoilchanged,andevenwentthroughthecarwash.He didn’t think about it again for aweek, until he came home earlyfromwork.HeknewWrenwouldstillbeatschool,andwhenheheardtheshowerrunning,hegrinnedandstrippedoffhisclothes,planningtojoinAnnabelle.Itwasn’tuntilhereachedthebedroomthatheheardherbeltingout“BeforeHeCheats.”

Hewasstill standingat the thresholdof thebathroomwhen thewater turned off and Annabelle opened the door, wearing a towel.“Hugh!” she shrieked. “You scaredme todeath!What are youdoinghere?”

“Playinghooky,”hesaid.

Annabellelaughed.“Naked?”

“Thatwasahappyaccident,”hereplied.

Heputhisarmsaroundherandstartedtokissher.Hetriednottowonderabouthersuddeninterestincountrymusicorwhetheritwashisimaginationthatshehadstiffenedathistouch.

WhenAnnabellelefttopickupWrenatschool,Hughpulledonapair of shorts and sat down at the computer. He logged in to theirAT&T account, the family plan that included his phone andAnnabelle’s.Hercallhistorywaspassword-protected,butheknewherpassword—Pepper,her childhooddog’sname.As the list ofnumbersscrolledontothescreen,helookedpasthermother’snumberandhisworknumberandothersherecognized.Hiseyesrestedontherepeat

calls toBranson,Missouri.The callswere lengthy—anhourat times.Thereweretextstothatnumber,too.

Hughwrote it down, put on a T-shirt and sneakers, and joggedfivemiles back to the police station.His secretary, Paula, glanced athimashewalkedintohisoffice,streamingwithsweat.“Didn’tyoujustsneakoutofhere?”

“Can’tstayawayfromyou,”hejoked.

In criminal cases, Hugh could subpoena the phone company torelease the name of a cellphone subscriber. He wrestled with themorality of using his power to check up on hiswife, and lost. A daylaterhehadaname:CliffWargeddon.HeranaDMVcheckandgotthelicenseplatenumberofawhiteFordpickuptruckandanaddress.

HearrivedatnineP.M.Thehousewasasmallranchonacul-de-sac,withcarefullytendedgardensandlittlegnomestatuesandcolorfulpinwheels catching thewind. Thewhite pickupwas in the driveway.Therewasadoormatthatsaid,THEPEOPLEINSIDETHISHOMEAREBLESSED.Onthestoop,twopottedplantsdrippedwithbegonias.

Whenawomaninherseventiesopenedthefrontdoorandcameoutwithasmalldogonaleash,Hughbegantowonderifhe’dmadeamistake. She walked the dog around the block and then went backinside. Hugh was about to abandon his post when the door openedagainandayoungmanwalkedout,shoutingsomethingintothehousebeforehewalkedtothewhitepickuptruckandgotinside.

HewasyoungerthanHugh.Maybebytenyears.Hell,hestilllivedwithhismother.HughfollowedhimtoabakeryinJackson.Themanwentthroughanemployeeentranceintheback.Hedidn’temergeforanothersixhours,justasdawnwasbreaking,hisarmsandpantsdustywithflour.

It took twomoredays of trailinghimbeforeWargeddonparkedhis white pickup truck down the street from Hugh’s house, in themiddleoftheday,whenWrenwasatschoolandHughwasatwork.

It tookhimawhiletoworkupthecouragetofollowWargeddoninside.

ThefirstthinghenoticedwasthatWargeddonhadatattooonhisrightshoulderblade,ascorpion.Thesecondthinghenoticedwasthemusicplayingsoftlyfromtheclockradiobesidethebed.Helookedat

Annabelle.“Sincewhen,”hesaid,“doyoulikeCarrieUnderwood?”

TherehadbeentimessinceAnnabelleleftthathewonderedwhatwouldhavehappenedifhehadn’ttrackeddownproofofherinfidelity.Wouldheeverhaveknown?Wouldshehave tiredofCliff, insteadofmoving with the boy-man to Paris, where he studied the art ofbaguettes and she tookup smoking andworkedon anovel henevereven knew she had wanted to write?WouldWren have been betterhavingaflawedmother,ratherthannomotheratall?

Sometimes, in the broken breath of night, Hugh wondered if itwasbettertoleavesomethingshidden.

HewonderedifGeorgeGoddardhadgoneafterhisrunawaywife.

He wondered if, against all odds, he had yet another thing incommonwiththatmanafterall.

—

JANINE’SHEADWASTHROBBING.SHEtriedtositup,butwincedwhenshefelt thesharpstabofpain inher jawand temple. “Ssh,” sheheard,awhisperlikecottonbatting.“Letmehelpyou.”

She felt an arm slide beneath her shoulders to elevate her to asittingposition.Slowly,shecrackedopenoneeye,thentheother.

Shewasstillinhell.

Theshooterwaspacing,mutteringtohimself.Thenursewasre-dressingthebandageonthedoctor’sthigh.Shepeeledbackthesoakedgauzefromthewound,andJanineturnedawaysoshewouldn’thavetoseeanymore.

Hercheekfellintoacuppedhand.JaninefoundherselfstaringatJoy.

Suddenlyitallcamefloodingback—whatshehadsaid,whathadhappened. She looked at herwig, lying like roadkill a few feet away.Shefeltherfaceflamewithembarrassment.“Whywouldyoutakecareofme?”

“Whywouldn’tI?”Joyreplied.

Theybothknewtheanswertothat.

JaninescrutinizedJoy.“Youmusthateme,”shemurmured.“Allofyou.OhmyGod.”

JoygingerlytouchedaspotonJanine’scheekbone.“You’regonnahaveahellofabruise,”shesaid.Shehesitated,andthenlookedJanineintheeye.“Soyoudidn’tjustsaythatstufftogetoutofhere?You’rereallyanti-choice?”

“Pro-life,” Janine automatically corrected. In this war, labelsmeant everything. She had heard so many on the other side takeumbrage when they were called pro-abortion. It’s pro-choice, theyalwayssaid,asiftherewassomethingwrongwithbeingpro-abortion.Andwasn’tthatexactlythepoint?

Joystaredather.“So…youdidn’tevenhavetobehere.”

Janinemethergaze.“Neitherdidyou.”

Joy didn’t move away from her, but Janine could feel the linebetween them solidify. “I came to get … evidence,” she explained.“Audio.Proofofpeoplebeingforcedinto…youknow.”

“Iwasn’tforced,”Joysaid.“Itwasnecessary.”

“That’snothowyourbabyfelt.”

“Mybabyfeltnothing.Itwasn’tevenababy.”

Janine knew that there wasn’t a moral difference between theembryoyouusedtobeandthepersonyouweretoday.Sotheunbornwere smaller than toddlers—did that mean adults deserved morehumanrightsthanchildren?Thatmenwereduemoreprivilegesthanwomen?

So the unborn weren’t fully mentally aware—did that precludepeople with Alzheimer’s or cognitive deficits, or those in comas, orthosesleepingfromhavingrights?

Sotheunbornwerehostedinthebodiesoftheirmothers.Butwhoyouareisnotdeterminedbywhereyouare.Youarenolesshumanifyoucrossstatelinesormovefromyourlivingroomtoyourbathroom.Whywouldatripfromwombtodeliveryroom—avoyageoflessthanafoot—changeyourstatusfromnonhumantohuman?

Theanswerwasbecausetheunbornwerehuman.AndJanine,forthe lifeofher,couldnotunderstandhowpeople likeJoy—likeall theothersinthisclinic—couldn’tseewhatwassoclear.

But somehow, it didn’t seem like the time or place to have thisfight. Especially with someonewhowas resting your aching head in

herlap,andgentlystrokingyourhair.

Unbidden, the thought came into Janine’s mind: Joy wouldprobablyhavebeenagoodmother.

“Wouldyouhave tried to stopme?”Joyasked. “If youhadbeenoutside?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Again, all the arguments against abortion in which Janine hadbeentutoredfloatedtothetipofhertongue,butinstead,shelookedatJoyandspokefromtheheart.“YoumightnothavegivenbirthtothenextEinsteinorPicassoorGandhi,” she said. “But I betwhoeverhewas,hewouldhavebeenamazing.”

TearswelledinJoy’seyes.“Don’tyouthinkIknowthat?”

“Then … there must have been another way. There’s alwaysanotherway.”

Joy shookherhead. “Doyou think Iwanted this?Do you thinkanyone wakes up and says, I think I’ll go get an abortion thismorning?Thisisthelaststop.Thisistheplaceyougowhenyourunthroughallthescenariosandyourealizethattheonlypeoplewhosaythere’s another way are the ones who aren’t standing there with apositivepregnancytestintheirhand.Ididit.Idon’tregretit.Butthatdoesn’tmeanIwon’tthinkaboutiteverydayofmylife.”

Janinestruggledtositup,herheadpounding.“Doesn’t thatsortofprove,onsomelevel,thatit’squestionable?”

“It’scompletelylegal.”

“So was slavery,” Janine replied. “Just because it’s legal doesn’tmeanit’sright.”

Their whispers were getting louder. Janine worried that they’dattract the shooter’s attention. She wondered if she would die here,today,amartyrforhercause.

“All that legal protection you want for the unborn,” Joy said.“Great.Give it to them.Butonly if you can findaway tonot take itawayfromme.”

ItmadeJaninethinkofKingSolomon,suggestingthatababybe

splitdownthemiddle.Obviouslythatwasn’tasolution.“Ifyoucarriedthebabytoterm,yes,maybeyou’dhavesomeproblemstosolve,butitwouldn’tthreatenyourexistence.Thereareplentyofwomenwhocan’thavechildren,whowoulddoanythingtoadopt.”

“Really?”Joysaid.“ThenwherethefuckweretheywhenIwasinfostercare?”

—

WHEN JOY WAS EIGHT YEARS old, her prized possession had been aWalkmancassetteplayershehadboughtatachurchyardsalefortwodollars,withacassettestillinside:SteelyDan’sCan’tBuyaThrill.Joydidn’tparticularlylikeSteelyDan,butbeggarscouldnotbechoosers.Everynightshefellasleepto“Reelin’intheYears,”becauseitblockedouttheothersoundsinherhouse.

Therehadbeencrying.Shouting.Joywouldturnupthevolumeofher Walkman and pretend she was somewhere else. Then, in themorning,hermotherwouldwakeherup,sportingabraceletofbruisesonher arm,blisters onherpalm. I’m so clumsy, shewould say.Fellrightoffthestepstool.Putmyhanddownonthestovewhenitwasstillhot.

Joyhadneverknownherdaddy,but therehadbeenaparadeofmen in the apartment since shewas small. Some stayed for aweek,someforyears.Somewerebetterthanothers.Rowanhadbroughthercoloringbooksandstickers.Leonhadadog,anoldcoonhoundnamedFoxy,thatsheusedtofeedscrapstounderneaththetable.ButEdhadlikedtowatchJoywhensheslept,andmorethanonceshewokeinthenighttofindhimsittingonherbed,strokingherhair.AndGraves,themanwhowaswithhermamanow,wasmeanasatrappedcat.

One night Joy heard the voices escalating and turned up herWalkmanvolumeonlytohaveitgarbleandfadeandthenquitentirely.Sheopened the littlebatterypackand sawoneof the twodoubleAsfrothing at the tip. Setting aside the cassette player, she realized thehousehadgonesilent,whichwassomehowevenworse.

Joyslippedoutofbed.Shecreptintothekitchen.

The reasonhermamawasn’t screamingwas thatGraveshadhishands wrapped around her throat. Her face was flushed, her eyesrolledbackinherhead.

Joygrabbedaknifeoutofthekitchendrawerandplungeditintohisback.

With a cry Graves whirled around, grabbing for the hilt of theblade,reachingforJoy.Shedancedawayfromhim,backingoutofthekitchenevenashermamacollapsed.

Later,Joywouldnotrememberrunningoutofherapartmentandbangingontheotherdoorsinthehallway.ShedidnotrecallMizDarlaopenthedoorwearingherheadscarfandhousecoat;howshewashedJoy’shandsand facewith lukewarmwater.When thepolice came totakeheraway,Joynoticedthesmallbloodyhandprintsmarkingeverydooronthefourthfloor.

Shewas taken to a foster home, a couple called theGrays, wholookedliketheysounded:thinandbledcolorlessbythefourkidstheyhoused.Hermotherwasallowedtovisitheronceaweek.Sheshoweduponlyonce,andJoybeggedtobetakenback.Hermothersaidthiswasn’tsuchagoodtime,andthat’showJoyrealizedthatGraveswasstilllivingintheirapartment.

Hermotherneverreturned.

Joy went to three other foster homes just that first year. TheGrays’biologicaldaughterbulliedher,andwhenshefinallydeckedthegirl,shewasplacedsomewhereelse.She lovedhersecondhome,butthecouplemovedoutofstatebecauseofthefather’sjob.Atthethirdhome,oneoftheotherfosterkids—athirteen-year-oldnamedDevon—madeher touchhimplacesshedidn’twant to,and threatened tosayshewasstealingfromthefosterfamilyifshedidn’t.

Byageten,Joywasahuskofthegirlshehadbeen.Whenshecutherwristsatageeleven,itwasn’tbecauseshewantedtokillherself.Itwasbecauseshewantedtofeelsomething,evenifthatwasonlypain.

StaringatJaninealltheseyearslater,Joysureashellfelt.Shefeltvolcanic anger—for having been born to a parent who couldn’t orwouldn’t take care of her. For being judged by a strangerwho actedholierthanthou.HowdareshethinkJoywasselfish,wheninfact,shewas being selfless—knowing she didn’t have the resources to raise achild,givinguptheonepersonwhomightloveherunconditionally?

“Iwasinfostercarefortenyears,”Joysaid.“Trustme.Therearenotpeoplelininguptoadoptthechildrenotherparentsdon’twant.”

“Ifyoudidn’twanttogetpregnantthenwhydidyou…”Janine’svoicetrailedoff.

“Havesex?”Joyfilledin.

BecauseIwaslonely.

BecauseIwantedto.

Because I wanted fifteen minutes where I was the center ofsomeone’sworld.

But Joe, bless his heart, had neglected to mention that he wasalreadymarried.

The fourthweek he came through Jackson, Joe told her that heandhiswifehadbeenhavingproblems forawhile,and thatshehadfinally accused himof having an affair. For one beautiful, breathlessmoment Joy had imagined the rest of her life—one in which Joeadmitted that he was in love with Joy, chose to be with her, livedhappilyeverafter.Buthehadcometosaygoodbye.

Itwasgood,Joesaid.Togeteverythingoutintheopen.

He had looked at her with his beautiful eyes, which no longerremindedJoyofseasshemighttravel,butofpaleglaciers,anoceanofice.

Ishouldhavetoldyou.Iwouldhaveif…Hisvoicetrailedoff.

Ifwhat? Joy thought.What condition had to exist for her to beloved?

We’re going to Belize. Some place Mariah found that’s off thegrid, so thatwehavenothing todobut talk. I’m takinga two-weekleaveofabsencefromthebench.

Mariah,Joythought.That’shername.

ShethankedGodforherprescriptionforOrtho-Novum.

Afewweekslatershediscoveredshewasoneofthe9percentofwomenwhostillgotpregnantwhileusingthePill.

She had not let herself think about Joe. Telling him about thepregnancymight have beenmorally right, but to what end?He hadmadeitclearthatitwasover.

Butnow,shegaveherselfahiccupofspace to imaginewherehe

wasat thismoment,andwhathewasdoing.Shewondered ifhehadheardthenewsaboutashooteratanabortionclinic.Shewonderedifshe would be a casualty, if when the victims’ names were read by areporter,hewouldgrieve.

“YouwanttoknowwhyIhadsex?”Joyrepeated.“BecauseImadeamistake.”

“Babies are born flawless. They deserve the world.” To Joy’ssurprise, Janine started to cry. She reached for Joy’s hands. “Babiesarebornflawless,”sherepeated,“andtheydeservetheworld.I’mnottalkingabout…whatyoudid today. I’mtalkingaboutyou. I’msorrythat you got stuck in foster care. I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe. Justbecauseyoudidn’tgetthatprotectiondoesn’tmeanyouwerebornanylessthanperfect.”

Joyhadnotcriedthenightshestabbedaman.

Shehadnotcriedwhenshewastakenawaytoafosterhome.

She had not cried when she was told hermother had died of abrokenneckafteran“accidental”fall.

Shehadnotcriedwhenshewassexuallyabusedorwhenshewokeupinthepediatricpsychward,herwristswrappedwithbandages.

Shehadnotcriedwhenshefoundoutshewaspregnant.

Shehadnotcriedduringthismorning’sprocedure.Orafterward.

Butnow,Joysobbed.

—

OLIVE’S EYESWERE TIGHTLY SHUT, even though the closetwas dark. ShewastryingtoblockouttheheatedconversationontheothersideofthedoorbypicturingPeg,theshapeofherface,thesmellofherhairwhenshejustcameoutoftheshower,thesoundofhernameinPeg’smouth,blurredbyhersouthernaccent:Olive.Olive.Ilove.

“Are you afraid of dying?”Wrenwhispered, pullingOlive out ofherreverie.

“Isn’teveryone?”

“Idon’tknow.Ineverthoughtaboutituntilnow.”

Thisgirlwassoyoung;younger,even,thanOlive’sstudents.Theyhad beenwedged together on the floor of the utility closet for three

hoursnow.

“I thinkwhat I’mafraidof,”Olive said, “is leavingeveryoneelsebehind.”

“Doyouhaveahusband?Kids?”

Oliveshookherhead,unsurewhattosay.TherewerestillplacesinMississippi where she introduced Peg as her roommate. And shewould never have walked down the street in broad daylight holdingPeg’shand.

“Notinthecardsforme,”shemurmured.

“Same for my aunt,” Wren said. “I never asked her if she waslonely.”

“You’llbeableto,whenyougetoutofhere.”

“If I getoutofhere,”Wrenwhispered. “Mydadused toactuallytellme tomakesure Iwaswearingcleanunderwear. Imean,whatacliché,right?”Shehesitated.“I’mwearingFriday.”

“Begpardon?”

“It’sTuesday.Andmyday-of-the-weekunderwearsaysFriday.”

Olivesmiledinthedark.“Yoursecretissafewithme.”

“What if I get shot? I mean, it’s clean, but it’s the wrong day.”Wrenlaughed,alittleunhinged.“WhatifI’mbleedingalloverandtheparamedicsnoticethat—”

“Youwon’tgetshot.”

Inthedark,Olivecouldseethefierceshineofthegirl’seyes.“Youdon’tknowthat.”

Shedidn’t.Tolivewasalwaysaconditionalverb.

There was a flurry of footsteps outside the closet door, and thephone rang. Both Olive and Wren held their breath. Olive grabbedWren’shand.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.” It was the shooter’s voice. It gotfainterashemovedawayagain.

Olive squeezed Wren’s fingers. “Peg,” she breathed. “That’s thenameofthewomanIlove.”

“The…oh,okay,”Wrenreplied.“That’scool.”

Olive smiled to herself. Yes, Pegwas cool. Cooler than shewas,anyway.ShemadefunofOlivefornotwearingwhiteafterLaborDayandforwaitingahalfhouraftereatingbeforesheswam.Livealittle,Pegwouldsaytoher,laughing.

RightnowthatwasallOlivewantedtodo.

“Ijustwantedtosayhernameoutloud,”Oliveaddedsoftly.

“Atleastyougottofallinlove,”Wrenwhispered.

“Isn’tthatwhyyou’rehere?”

Wrenduckedherhead.“Idon’tknow.IfIdosurvive,afterthis,Imayneverhavesex.”

Olivegrinned.“IfIsurvive,”shereplied,“it’sallI’mgoingtodo.”

—

GEORGE ANSWERED THE PHONE ON the second ring. “You know,” Hughbegan, as ifGeorgehadnothunguponhimbefore, “Iused to go tochurchwithmykid.Noteveryweek—Iwasn’tasgoodaChristianasIcouldhavebeen.ButalwaysEasterservicesandChristmasEve.”

George snorted. “That’s likeputtinggravyonSkittlesandsayingyoumadeThanksgivingdinner.”

“Yeah,Iknow.Itwasmyfault.Ihaveahardtimesittingstill.AndI couldn’t handle the holier-than-thous. You know, the guys who sitright up front in the pews and act like they’ve got some special VIPpasstoGod?”

“Itdon’tworkthatway,”Georgesaid.

“Hell,no,”Hughsaid.“Anyway,itmustdriveyoucrazywhenyouseepeopleactinglikethat,too.Peopletakinglibertiesthatbelongtoagreaterpower.”

“Idon’tfollow.”

Hugh lookeddownat theslipofpaperoneof thedetectiveshadgivenhim.“TheLordbringsdeathandmakesalive.”

“Samuel2:6,”Georgesaid.

“Isthatwhyyoucameheretoday?Becauseyoufeltpeopleinthisclinicdidn’thavetherighttoendalife?”

Therewassilenceontheline.

“Vengeanceismine,saiththeLord,”Hughsaidsoftly.“Notyours.TheLord’s.”

“That’snotwhyIcame,”Georgesaid.“It’swhyyoucame.”

“Icametotalktoyou—”

“Youcame,”George interrupted, “todecidewho lives today, andwhodies.So,tellme…whichoneofusisplayingGod?”

—

GEORGE WAS SIX YEARS OLD when he learned how fine the line wasbetweenlifeanddeath.IthadbeenoneofthosebeautifulfalldaysinMississippi. The colors had peaked, and the trees were a jewelednecklacewrappedaroundthelake.Hewaswalkingthroughthewoods,liking the crunch of the red maple and hickory and bur oak leavesunderhissneakers.Hewaskickinganacornwhenhefoundthebird.

Itwasnotababy,but somekindof sparrow thathadbroken itswing.Ithoppedinsmallcirclesontheground.

Hepickeditupasifitweremadeofglassandcarrieditallthewayback to his home. There, he found a cigar box and lined it withKleenex.Forthreedays,hehidthelittlebirdunderhisbed,tryingtogive it water, and bringing it leaves and grubs and anything else hethoughtmightbeappetizing.

The bird did not improve. It barelymoved.He could hardly seetheriseandfallofitsbreast.

Heneededhelp,sohewenttohisfather.

Whathehadn’tknown,atthetime,wasthathisdaddywasinoneofhismoods,sleepingofflastnight’sexcesses.

It’snotgettinganybetter,heexplained.Canyoufixit?

Youbet.Hisfatherliftedthebirdwiththegentlestoftouches.Onelong finger stroked from the crown of the bird’s head to its crookedtail.Andthenhesnappeditsneck.

Youkilledit!Georgecried.

Hisfatherpushedthelimpcreaturebackandcorrectedhim.Iputitoutofitsmisery.

George couldn’t stop sobbing; he hadn’t stopped, not when heburiedthecigarboxinhismother’smelonpatch;notwhenshemadehim catfish for dinner; not when he lay down in his pajamas aftersayinghisprayersforthedepartedsoulofthebird.Hecouldhearhisparentsarguinginthehall.

Whatkindoffatherdoesthat?

Back then he had wondered if his father truly thought he wasdoingtherightthingbyendingthebird’ssuffering.

Now,Georgelookedaroundtheclinicwaitingroomatthemotleycollectionofpeoplewhosefateheheldinhishand.

Violence,fromoneangle,lookedlikemercyfromanother.

—

TENYEARSEARLIER,HUGHHADbeenoneofadozencopsonthegroundtwenty-two stories below the Regions Plaza. He squinted up at theroof, where a slight guy in a windbreakerwavered on the edge. Thechiefwastalkingintoabullhorn.“Stepawayfromtheedge,”hesaid.“Don’tjump.”

It seemed to Hugh that the last thing you wanted to say tosomeone in this situation was Don’t jump. It was like you wereplanting the seed more firmly in his head, when what you reallyneededtodowasdistracthim.

“Chief,”hesaid,“I’vegotanidea.”

Withinminutes,Hughhadclimbedasetofstairsfromthetwenty-secondfloortotheroofofthebuildingandcrepttotheedgewheretheman sat. Except he wasn’t aman.Hewas a boy, really. Eighteen, ifthat.

Hughsatdownbesidethekid,facingtheoppositedirection,awayfromtheedge.Heturnedonthedigitalrecorderinhispocket.“Hey,”Hughsaid.

“Theysentyou?”

“Theydidn’tdoanything.IcameupherebecauseIwantedto.”

Theboyglancedathim.“Andyoujusthappentobewearingacopuniform.”

“MynameisHugh.Howaboutyou?”

“Alex.”

“IsitokayifIcallyouthat?”

Theboyshrugged.Thewindruffledhisfinehair.

“Youokay?”

“DoIlookokay?”

Hughthoughtbacktowhenhewasateenager,andsuchasmart-assthatonce,Bexhadmadedinnerandsetanextraplateatthetable.That’sforyourattitude,shehadsaid,andfeelfreetoleaveitbehindwhenyou’redoneeating.

Hugh noticed the familiar colors of anOleMiss T-shirt peekingfrombehindtheboy’shalf-zippedwindbreaker.“OleMiss,huh?”

“Yeah.Why?”

“BecauseifyouwereafanofMississippiStateImighthavehadtopushyouoff.”

Alaughburstoutofthekid’sthroat,surprisinghim.“IfIwasafanofMississippiStateIwouldhavejumped.”

Hughleanedbackalittle,likehehadallthetimeintheworld,andstartedtalkingaboutwhowasgoingtoreplacethequarterbackafterhegraduated.Itwentonfromthere,liketheywerejusttwoguysshootingthebreeze.

Aftera coupleofhourshadpassed,Alex said, “Youeverwonderwhytheycallthemstories?Thefloorsofabuilding?”

“No.”

“Imean,thenwhyisn’tabuildingcalledabook?”

Hughlaughed.“You’reprettysmart,”hesaid.

“IfIhadadimeforeverytimeIheardthat,”Alexsaid,“I’dhaveadime.”

“I find that hard to believe. Come on. You’re funny, andintelligent,andyouclearlyrootfortherightfootballteam.There’sgottobesomeoneouttherewho’sworriedaboutyou.”

“Nope,”Alexsaid,hisvoicecatching.“Notasingleone.”

“Wrong.There’sme.”

“Youdon’tknowmeatall.”

“IknowIwasofftheclockanhourago,”Hughsaid.

“Sogo.”

“I’dratherstayhere.Becauseyourlife,it’simportant,”Hughsaid.“I can’t pretend that I know what’s going on with you, Alex. And Iwon’t disrespect you by claiming I do. But I do know that my ownshittiestdayswereusuallyfollowedbybetterdays.”

“Well,tomorrow,I’mnotgonnabeanylessgay.Ittookmefifteenyears to figure it out and another two to get the nerve to tell myparents.”Alexpickedatathreadonhis jeans.“Theythrewmeoutofthehouse.”

“Ifyouneedaplacetostay,Icanhelpyoufigurethatout.Ifyouneedsomeonetotalkto,we’llgetyousomeonetotalkto.”

Alex looked into his lap. “I wishmy dad was like you,” he saidsoftly.

“That’sniceofyoutosay,”Hughreplied.“Especiallysincemydadwasthebiggestassholeonthisplanet.”

Thekid’sheadsnappedup.“Whatdidhedotoyou?”

“I’mnotrealcomfortabletalkingaboutit…butIthinkyou’dgetit.I’lljustsaythatnokiddeservestobehitallthetime.Andnoparentshouldbedrunkallthetime.”

“Howdidyou…doyoustilltalktohim?”

“Nope,”Hughsaid. “Once I toldpeoplewhatwasgoingon, theywerewilling tohelpme. I tooktheirgoodadvice,andtheirsupport.”HelookedatAlex.“Theworldturnedouttobeawholelotbiggerthanmydad.”

Forthefirst timeinovertwohours,Hughreachedouthishand.Alexlookeddownatit,andthengrabbedon.Hughpulledthekidawayfromtheedge,andintohisembrace.

Itwasn’tuntilaweeklaterthatChiefMonroecalledHughintohisofficeandsaidhewasrecommendinghimasacandidate forhostagenegotiation school. “You’reanatural,”he said. “Whatyoudidon theroofwiththatkid…”HegesturedatthetranscriptfromHugh’sdigitalrecorder,theconversationbetweenhimandAlex.AsHughstartedtoleave,thechief’svoicecalledhimback.“Ididn’tknowaboutyourdad.

I’msorry.”

Hughpaused in thedoorway. “Mydadwas the greatest guy.Henevertouchedadropofalcoholinhislife,Chief.”Heinclinedhishead.“Iwasjustsellinghope.”

—

BETHWATCHED THE STRANGERWHO was supposedly going to be able tokeepheroutofjail.Andbasedonwhathadjusthappenedinfrontofthejudge,itdidn’tlookpromising.

The womanwas short,maybe five-three, African American. Shehad her hair chemically straightened ormaybe it was aweave; Bethcouldn’ttell.Shewaswearinganavysuitthatdidn’tflatterhercurves.Andshewasstillaboutfivefeetawayfromthebed.Bethdidn’tknowifthiswassupposedtobeforthelawyer’ssafety,orherown.

The stenographer packed up her machine and left with thesecurity guards. Themale lawyer—the onewhowasn’t on her side—sauntereduptoBeth’spublicdefender.“Alwaysapleasure,Mandy.”

“Foryou,maybe.”

Helaughed.“Seeyouincourt.”

Thedoorhadn’tclosedbehindhimbeforeMizDuVille turnedtothecopwhowasstationed inher room, like somekindof creepy-assstalker. He didn’t even leave when the nurses came in to check herdownthere.“Nathan,”herlawyersaid,“Imusttalktomyclient.”

“Nope.”

“It’lltaketwominutes,tops.”

“Whatworddidn’tyouunderstand?”

“Youcanstayhere.I’llwhisperintoherearsoyoucan’thearme.”

“N,”thecopspelledout,“O.”

She took a step closer, refusing to give an inch. “If you do notallowmeaprivate conversationwithmyclient Iwill tell everyoneatthe station that you shit your pants during your fitness test runbecauseyouhadbadChineseforlunch.”

“Youwouldnot—”

Shefoldedherarms.

Hefrowned.“IfyoutellanyonethatI’msteppingoutsidetoletyoudo this, you will never get the cooperation of a single person inmydepartment.”

“Crossmyheart,”thelawyersaid,andwithaswear,thepolicemanleftthemalone.

“Nathan’s my cousin,” the public defender explained, and shegrinned.

“MizDuVille—”

“Mandy.”Shewalkedtothesideofthebed.“I’mgoingtoneedyoutotellmeeverythingthatleduptothispoint.Butfirst,youmusthavesomequestions.”

Somequestions?Shehaddozens.Whyweretheytreatingherlikeacriminal?Wasshereallygoingtohavetogotoprison?Whatwouldherdadsay,whenhefoundout?

Howlongdidshehavetostayinthehospital?Whatwouldhappenifshetriedtoleave?Wherewouldsheevengo?

Instead, she looked at Mandy and said, “Is God going to havemercyonme?”

Thelawyerblinked.“Ibegyourpardon?”

“Whatthejudgesaid.DoyouthinkGodwillhavemercyonme?”

“I’d be more worried about whether Judge Pinot will,” Mandysaid. “We call him the Pinot-lizer, because he has a fondness formaximumsentences.He’snotexactlyagreatjusticetodraw.You’reaminor, but you canbe tried as an adult.” She sighed. “Look, I’mnotgoingtolie.Theoddsarenotinyourfavor.Youorderedpillsillegallyon the Internet, andmedical termination of pregnancy is somethingthatcanonlybedonewithadoctor’ssupervision.Butthat’sjustthetipoftheiceberg.Weliveinastatethatconsidersanembryoaperson,forpurposesofahomicidestatute.Thatmeansifyouintentionallycausethe death of a fetus growing inside you, you could be prosecuted inMississippiformurder.”

Bethshrankbackagainstthepillows.Sheclosedhereyes,seeingthewhitetileofthebathroomfloorandthebloodsmearedacrossit.

“Youmaynothaveknownyouweredoingsomethingwrong,butthat’snothowthelawseesit.”

“Idon’tgetit,”Bethmurmured.“Ithoughtabortionwaslegal.”

Thelawyertookoutapadandpen.“Whydon’twestartattheverybeginning?”

Bethnodded,andsuddenlyshewasbackatRunyon’s,themarketwheresheworkedasacheckoutgirl.Itwasatinygrocery,notachain,thekindthatsoldslicesofhomemadepierightattheregister.Itwasanordinaryshift,meaningthatthepatronswereoldwhiteladieswithhairnetsonandtheiryoungblackcompanionspushedthecart.Tessie,howmuchare those greenbeans? Bethwouldhear, and then,Well,Miss Ann, I think they are on sale. The bagger at her stationwas aBlack man named Rule, and when Mr. Runyon came around andpinchedBethonherassRulewouldduckhisheadsohedidn’tsee.Youdidn’thave togoany further thanthemarket torealize thatAmericahadnotchangedmuchinhundredsofyears.

Every day at Runyon’swas the same,whichwaswhy, when thestrangerentered,itfeltlikealightningbolt.Hewasatleastsixfeettall,wearing a blazer—even in the infernal heat—with his button-downoxfordshirt.Hewalkedrightuptohercounter,holdingasix-packofbeer.“Well,hello,”hesaid,lookingathernametag.“Beth.”

His accent rose and fell like birdswith theirwings clipped. “I’mgoingtoneedtoseeyourID,”shesaid.

“I’mflattered.ButIcouldalsojusttellyoumyname,ifyouwanttoknow.”

He had a smile that was a torch. “I’m guessing you’re not fromaroundhere,”Bethsaid.

“UofWisconsin.We’rehereforatrackmeet.”Hesmiled.“Yougotothecollege?”

Bethwasseventeen.Shewasn’tatOleMiss.Shedidn’tevenknowifshe’dgotocollege.Butshenodded.

“Thenmaybeyou’llcomecheermeon.”Hepickedupawedgeofpie wrapped in plastic and frowned. “Buttermilk pie? That soundsterrible.”

“Actually,it’ssweet.”

“Notassweetasyou.”

Bethrolledhereyes.“DoesthatlineactuallyworkinWisconsin?”

shesaid.“I’mstillgoingtoneedyourID.”

Hefishedinhispocketforhiswalletandpulledoutalicense.Bethscanned the birth date and then the name. “John Smith,” she saiddryly.

“Blamemyparents.”Hewinkedather,tookhisbeerandhispie,and then turned back just before hewalked out of themarket. “Youshouldcometothemeet.”

Andthenhewasgone,andwithhim,alltheairinthemarket.

Sheknewbetter.Shehadbeencounseledherwholelifeabouthowwhen the devil came to you, he would come in a form you couldn’tresist—like a Yankee boy who seemed to glow like a Roman candlewhenhegrinned.ThewayBethknewitwasthedevilwasthathemadeher lie toher father, sayingshehadadouble shift,when insteadshewenttotheuniversityandsatinthebleachersandwatchedhiminthe4 x 100 relay. Every time he rounded the corner, it seemed he wasrunningstraighttoher.

WhatBethdidn’tknow—inspiteofallthehoursshehadgoneoveritinhermindsincethen—washow,inthemoment,itfeltlikeadoorhadopenedonawholenewworld—yet,afterward,shewasnothingbuta cliché. He had spread his fancy blazer on the ground beneath thebleachers like a picnic blanket, he had given her her first beer, andwhenherheadwasfullofstars,hehadlaidherdownandkissedher.Whenhepeeledoffherblouseandtouchedher,shetransformedintosomeoneelse—agirlwhowasbeautiful,agirlwhowantedmore.Whenhe pushed inside her, burning, and then suddenly he stopped, Bethpanicked.Shehadnottoldhimhewasherfirst,butitwasn’ttheonlyliebetweenthem.I’msorry,shetoldhim,andhekissedherforehead.I’mnot,hesaid.

Hepromisedthathewouldcomevisitherandthat thiswasn’taone-time deal. He put his phone number and his name into hercontacts.Shefloatedhome,wonderingifeveryoneinMississippicouldseehowdifferentshewasnow,asifbeinglovedleftapatinaonyourskin.

Twodays laterhehadstillnot texted,soshegatheredupallhercourageandmadethefirstmove.Onesecondlaterherphonebuzzedwiththenewsthatthetextwasundeliverable.Shedialedthenumber,onlytohaveanelderlyladypickupandtellherthattherewasnoone

therebythatname.

Therewere toomany JohnSmiths onFacebook to count. Therewas a John Smith at the University of Wisconsin, but an Internetsearchrevealedhimtobeaprofessorofcomparative literature inhismid-seventies.

“That rat bastard,” Miz DuVille said, shaking Beth out of herreverie.

“Yeah,thatwasonlythestart,”Bethreplied.“Imissedmyperiod.”

“Nocondom?”

“No, but Susannah at church—who volunteeredwithme for thelittlekidSundaySchool—toldmeyoucan’tgetpregnantthefirsttime.”

“That’snot—”Thelawyershookherhead.“Nevermind.Goon.”

“IfiguredIwasallright.ButImissedanotherperiod,soItookapregnancytest.”Shelookedup,sheepish.“Actually,three.”

“Thenwhat?”

Beth shifted. “I kept putting it off. I thought, Something willhappen.It’llgoaway.”Hereyes filledwithtears.“Iprayed.Iprayedforamiscarriage.”

“Isthatwhathappened?”

Beth shook her head. “I called the clinic and made anappointment.”

“Didn’ttheyaskyourage?”

“Yeah. I said I was twenty-five. I was afraid they’d tellme theycouldn’t helpme.” Beth shrugged. “They askedwhenmy last periodwas,andtheytoldmeIwasfourteenweeksandtheydidproceduresuptosixteenweeks.Theysaid itwouldbeeighthundreddollars for theprocedure.”

“ButtheCenteris—”

“Twoandahalfhoursaway.Itookabus,andallthesavingsIhadfrommy job—awhopping twohundredand fiftydollars. I didn’t tellanyone.Icouldn’t.”Bethtookadeepbreath.

“Howwereyougoingtoraisetherestofthemoney?”

Bethshookherhead.“Idon’tknow.IfiguredI’dsteal,ifIhadto.

Frommydad.Orthecashregisteratwork.”

“I’mconfused.IfyouwenttotheCenter—”

“They asked for picture ID,whichwouldhave given away that Iwas a minor. I started to cry. The lady at the front desk said if Icouldn’t tellmyparents, I couldgeta judicialwaiver,and thencomeback.Shegavemeaformtofillout.”

Mandy DuVille frowned. “But you didn’t. And that’s why youwounduphere.”

“Itried,”Bethsaid.“Butthedaybefore,someonefromthejudge’soffice calledand toldmemyhearingwascanceled.They toldme thejudgewas having a personal emergency and going toBelizewith hiswife.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” the lawyer said. “There’s always ajudge on call, for restraining orders for domestic violence cases oranythingelselife-threatening—”

“Iguessmylifewasn’tbeingthreatened,”Bethsaid.“Notthewaytheythought,anyhow.Theladywhocalledmefromthejudge’sofficesaidthequickestshecouldgetmeinwasintwoweeks.ButIcouldn’twaitthatlong.”

“Because the Center only does abortions up to sixteen weeks ofpregnancy,”thelawyersaid.

Beth nodded. “I had to do something. I read online about a girlwho said she got ulcer pills from her bodega that could cause amiscarriage. I didn’t have a bodega anywhere nearme, though. So Ipostedonamessageboardonline.”

She remembered what she had typed: How do I get rid of apregnancywithoutmyparentsfindingout?

Theresponseshadbeenhorrible:

Throwyourselfdownthestairs.

Broomstick.

Goodold-fashionedhanger.

Yousickbitch,killurselfnoturbaby.

But buried somewhere in the responses saying shewas a sinnerwho should have kept her legs together was a girl who told her she

couldpurchaseabortionpillsonline.

“TheycamefromChinawithinstructions,”Bethsaid.“Itonlytookfivedaystocomeinthemail.”

She’d thought it would be easy. Like taking Imodiumwhen youhad the runs,and then theymagicallyweregone.Shedideverythingthewayshewassupposedto,tuckingthefirstsetofpillshighintohercheekslikeachipmunk,andshesatdownonthetoiletandwaited.Shethrewthepackagingintothetrash.Whenthecrampsstarted,shewassohappy,sheburstintotears.Butsoontheyweresostrongshehadtorunthewaterinthesinktodrownouthermoans.Shestaggeredoffthetoiletandsankintoasquattotrytomakethepaingoawayandthat’swhenithappened.

“I wrapped it up,” Beth sobbed, “and I put it in the garbage. Ididn’tknowwhatelsetodo.”

Sheneededsomeonetotellherthatshewasn’taterribleperson;that she hadn’t done the unthinkable. She wiped her eyes on theblanket and looked at her lawyer for the absolution she feared shewouldneverhave.

“MizDuville,”shewhispered.“Itwasn’tababyyet,wasit?”

—

LILGODDARDHADEITHERVANISHEDoffthefaceoftheearthorhadneverexisted. In spite of the pastor’s description of her, andGeorge’s owncomments about his daughter, no one had been able to turn up anyinformationaboutthegirl.

Hughwasmultitasking—still trying towinGeorge’s trust on thephonewhilescanningthenotesandthereportsthatwerebeingfedtohim by detectives. Lil Goddard wasn’t at her home. She had nevergottenatrafficticketanddidn’thaveavehicleregisteredtohername.TheonlyhitaGoogle search retrievedwas fromtenyearsago,whensheplayedanangel in aChristmaspageant ather churchandhadacaptionedphotointhelocalpaper.Itwasn’tuncommonforminorstoleave very faint trails, but Lil had also never been enrolled in anypublic school in the state of Mississippi. Then again, many kids ofevangelicalswerehome-schooled.AndallHughreallyknewaboutLilwasthatshehad,atsomepoint,hadanabortionatthisclinic—buttherecordswerenotaccessibleonline,soitcouldhavebeenyesterdayoramonthago.

Hell,forallHughknew,GeorgeGoddardhadkilledLilinafitofrageandburiedherinthebackyard.

But if they could find her,maybe she could convince George toendthis.

“Icouldgetamessagetoyourdaughter.”Hughhesitated.“Icouldbe an intermediary. I’m sure you want to explain to her what’shappening.”

“Ican’t,”Georgesaid,hisvoicecracking.

Becauseshewouldn’tlisten?Hughthought.Becauseshe’sdead?

“Man,Ihearyou.Seemslikemeandmydaughtercan’tevenagreethattheskyisbluesometimes.”

Hughhadasuddenvisionofhimlyingonhisbackonafield,withWren’snine-year-oldheadpillowedonhisbelly,asshepointedattheclouds in the sky.That one looks like a condom, she’d said.He hadbarely controlled himself from bolting upright. How do you knowwhatacondomis?Wrenhadrolledhereyes.Dad.I’mnotababy.

“Icouldhelpyou,”Hughsuggested.“MaybeIcouldevengetherto come here and talk in person … if you were willing to give mesomethinginreturn.”

“Likewhat?”

“Iwantallthehostagessafe,George.Butthisisn’taboutme.It’saboutyou.Andyourdaughter.She’sthereasonyoucamehere,today.Clearly,she’sprettyspecialtoyou.”

“Youeverwishyoucouldturnbacktheclock?”Georgesaidsoftly.“It’s like yesterday, she was begging me to braid her hair. Andnow…now…”

“Nowwhat?”

“She’sallgrownup,”Georgewhispered.

Hugh closed his eyes. Sometimes when he walked past Wren’sroomandheardherFaceTimingwithafriendandlaughing,hervoicesoundedlikeAnnabelle’s,likeawomaninsteadofagirl.“Yeah,”Hughsaid.“Iknow.”

—

WREN COULD HEAR HER FATHER. For whatever reason, the shooter had

turnedonthespeakerphone.

Seemslikemeandmydaughtercan’tevenagreethattheskyisbluesometimes.

Didhereallythinkthat?Orwasthispartoftheroleheplayedasanegotiator?Wren used to tell him that hewas basically just a reallypoorlypaidactor,makingupwhateverhethought thepersonhewastalking towanted to hear.Yeah, her father said.But the best actingcomesfromsomegrainoftruth.

Didherdadthinktheyfoughtalot?

Therehadbeenapointwhenherfatherhadbeenthecenterofheruniverse,andshehadfollowedhimaroundlikeashadow,helpinghimfix thedryerormowthe lawn,butmostly justgetting inhisway.Henever toldher to get out of hishair, though. Instead,he showedherhowtocheckthedryerventforlintandhowtochangethesparkplugson the mower. Then she went to school, and began to hang out atfriends’houses,andlearnedthattherewasawholesliceoflifeshehadbeenmissing—likemessing around in yourmother’smakeupdrawerand trying on her heels and pretending to be a grand duchess; orwatchingsoapoperas insteadofpoliceprocedurals. Itwasher friendMina’s mother who bought her her first box of tampons, and stoodoutside the bathroom door coaching her on how to use them.Wrenknewher fathercouldandwoulddoanythingforher,but therewerejust some things that were not in his wheelhouse, and soWren hadfoundthemelsewhere.

Nowhethoughttheydidn’tgetalong?

Shetriedtorememberthelasttimethey’dspentagoodamountoftime doing nothing but be together. It was amonth and a half ago,mid-August.TheyhadastandingdateforthePerseidmeteorshower;everyyeartheywouldhiketothehighestpoint intheJacksonarea—herdadcarryingthetelescopeandWrenluggingthetent.They’dpullan all-nighter, watching the show that the sky put on for them, andthenhavepancakesatadineratsunrise,andsleeptherestofthedayaway. But this yearWren had been invited to themovieswithMinaandthey’dheardthatRyanwasgoingtobetherewithagroupofguysfromschool.SheandMinahadmadeanelaborateplanabouthowtobestgetWrentositbesideRyaninthetheater,andtoshareabucketofpopcorn.Maybetheirhandswouldbrush.Maybehewouldputhisarm

aroundher.

Wrenalmostbackedoutofthemeteorovernight.Sheinfacthadgone to break the news to her dad when she found him in thebasement,wrestlingwithaninflatablesleepingpad.“Ifigureafterallthese years we deserve some creature comfort,” he said. “No morestones underneath our sleeping bags.”He looked up at her. “What’sup?”

Shedidn’t have theheart to cancel. So she calledMina and toldher she had to do something with her dad. And it all worked out,becauseRyanaskedhertogotothemoviesaloneaweeklater,andhedidn’t justputhisarmaroundher—hekissedher,duringthecredits,andWrenhadfeltthewaysheimaginedastardidwhenitexploded.

Onthenightof thePerseidmeteorshower,Wrenandher fatherhad hiked to their usual spot and pitched the tent and spread thebedrollsandarrangedthesleepingbags.Herdadcookedhotdogsoveracampfireonsticks,andtheyroastedmarshmallows.Theysetupthetelescope,andWrenscannedthenightsky.

“Do you remember when I showed you Betelgeuse,” her fathersaid,“andyouaskedwhichcamefirst,thestarorthemovie?”

“Iwas,like,seven,”Wrenprotested.

Helaughed.

She stepped away from the scope and stretched out beside him.“It’sdying,isn’tit?”

“Betelgeuse?Yeah.It’saredgiant.Soit’scooling.”

“That’skindofsad.”

Her father grinned. “You won’t be around to see it die, if thatmakesyoufeelanybetter.”

“Iguessifyouhavetogo,asupernova’saflashywaytodoit.”OnedayBetelgeusewouldexplodeinatremendoussparkof light, leavingbehindaplanetarynebula.Andasallthatdustandgascleared,allthatwould remainof itwouldbea tinywhitedwarf star.A core,withoutfire.

“Nothinglastsforever,”herfathersaid.

She and her father had seen plenty of white stars through thetelescope. She wondered which ones from her childhood were gone

now,andwhethertheywereactuallydead,oriftheywerejusttoofainttoemitlight.Didyouhavetobemissedtoexist?

When the first streak of light had grazed the sky, she’d sat up,breathless.Whatfollowedwasavisualsymphony,strafingthedark,asif someone had shaken the constellations like dice and rolled themacross the night. “Sometimes I forget how beautiful it is,” shewhispered.

“Me too,” her father said, his voice tight. When she turned hewasn’tlookingatthemeteors.Hewaslookingather.

Ifshedied,shewouldbemissed.

Wrenfelthereyeswellup.Whathadshebeendoingthismorningthatwassoimportantthatshehadn’tspentanextrafiveminutesatthetablewithher father, tellinghimshe lovedhim?Or, for thatmatter,about Ryan? Or that lately she woke up with the blankets tangledaroundher feetandherheartracingbecauseshewasafraidofneverfindingher tribe in high school and that she’d bombherPSATs andnevergotocollegeandsuddenlyeverythingwashappeningtoofast.

Last year forherbirthday,her fatherhadgottenher tickets to aNeildeGrasseTysonlecture.TheyhadtraveledtoAtlantatohearhimspeak.Theastrophysicisthadtalkedaboutdarkenergy.Itwasareal,measurable pressure in the universe that scientists didn’t trulyunderstandyet,whichwasforcingtheuniversetoexpandbeyondourhorizon.Oneday,hesaid,astronomerswouldonlybeabletotrackthestarsoftheMilkyWay,andnotothergalaxies—theywouldhavemovedoutof sight, like the last chapterof abook thathadbeen tornaway.Maybewewerealreadyonlyseeingpartof thestory,alreadymissingchapters.

Youdon’t knowwhatyoudon’t know,Neil deGrasseTysonhadsaid,ayearago.

Butnow,forthefirsttime,Wrenreallyunderstood.

—

IT HAD BEEN PASTOR MIKE’S wife, Earlene, who first mentioned theproblemtoGeorge:Lil’shair.Itwasunmanageable.

He, too, had noticed that her baby-fine curls had somehowbecome matted in places. He had tried to brush it, but the bristlescaughtonthesnarlsandLilwouldstarttocry.ThenEarlenestopped

himwhenhewascleaningouttheguttersofthechurchonasummerdaythatwaseasilyahundreddegrees.Shestoodbelowtheladderwitha glass of lemonade for him. He thanked her, and as he drank, shelookedoffinthedistancetowhereLilandsomeoftheotherkidsfromthechurchwereplayingonaswingset. “Youknow,oneofminehadhair like that.Justasuncontrollableasshewas.”Earlene laughed.“Iusedtowashherhairinthetubatnightwithshampooandconditionerandbraiditwet,soitcouldn’tgettangledwhilesheslept.”Shetooktheemptyglassfromhimandsmiled.“Don’tyougogettingsunstrokeonme,hear?”

Earlene had the sweetest way about her, finding ways to makesuggestionswithoutbeingcritical.Georgehadnevermetawomanlikethat. Certainly his mama wasn’t that way, and if his wife had beenmore like Earlene, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so angry all thetime.

ThatnightwhenhegaveLilherbath,hetoldhershewasgoingtoDaddy’s Hair Salon. He tugged a comb through her damp hair,workingconditionerintotheplaceswherethetanglesweretough,andrazoring away one spot that had turned into the beginning of adreadlock. Then he divided her hair into three sections, clumsilycrossinghisfistsovereachothertomakealopsidedbraid.Hesecureditwitharubberband,andtuckedherin.

Thenextmorningwhenheunwound thebraid,Lil’shair spilledoverhershoulderslikeashiningwaterfall.

“Daddy,”shesaidthatnight,“braiditagain.”

George bought hair ribbons at the drugstore, and elastics thatdidn’tcatchonLil’sfinehair.Itbecameatwice-dailyritual:hewouldsit her on a kitchen stool and stand behind her, brushing her hairrhythmically, and braiding it for bed. In the morning, he’d combthrough thewaves. As he got braver, hemade a part, and fashionedpigtails.Helearnedhowtopullherhairbackintoabarrette.HewenttothelibraryandwatchedvideosonthefreeInternetabouthowtodoaFrenchbraid,abun,afishtail.

There was no question that he took pride on Sundays, when atchurch, mothers came up to him and complimented him on Lil. Orwhenpeopleweresurprisedtofindoutthatshewasbeingraisedbyasingle father.Hewasamanwho’dbeen toldhe’ddonewrongallhis

life,and thiswasbalmonawound.ButwhatGeorge loved themostwasthemagicthathappenedbetweenhimandLilwhenitwasjustthetwoofthem,runningthebrushthroughhercurls.Georgeknewhewasa quietman, not given to, well, chitchat. But when he was standingbehindhisdaughter,withhishandsinherhair,shetalkedtohim.Andhestartedtotalkback.

They talked about silly things:whether they’d rather have a firepole in thehouse to get fromupstairs to downstairs, or a swimmingpool full of Jell-O; what they’d buy if they won the Powerball, ifBatmanwould kickWonderWoman’s butt, or vice versa. TherewassomethingaboutstandingbehindLilandnotmakingeyecontactthatmadetalkingeasierforthemboth,evenwhentheconversationturnedtougher—standinguptothegirlsatchurchwhobulliedherforwearingthesamedresseverySunday;understandingthataboywhostuffedafrogdownhershirtmighthaveactuallybeentryingtogethertonoticehim;talkofhermama.

George lived for those moments, twice a day, when he did hisdaughter’shair.

Thenonenight,whenLilwas fourteen, shedidn’t come into thekitchen after her shower.George found her in her room, her elbowstwistedbehindherhead,weavingherhairintoabraid.“Itseemssillyforyoutodoit,”shesaid,“whenIcandoitmyself.”

Georgedidn’tknowhowtosayitwasn’taboutthat,butaboutthemomentshespentwithher.Hedidn’tknowhowtoexplainthateachsweepofabrushcouldjogsomethinginateenagerthatshedidn’tevenknowshewasholding inside.Hedidn’tknowhow to say that seeingherfixherownhairfilledhimwithaterribleheaviness,asifthiswasthebeginningoftheend.

Sohesaidnothingatall.

IfLilhadstill lethimbraidherhair,wouldhebehere,now?Orwouldshehaverealizedthattherewasnothingshecoulddoorsaythatwouldmakeherseemlessperfecttohim?Wouldshehaveknownthatwhateverknotshehadgotteninto,theywoulduntangletogether?

Hehadputdownthetelephonereceiverbecauseithurthisear.Itwas on speakerphone now, and he was pacing in front of the deskwhereyou signed in.ButHughMcElroyhad stopped talking, and sohadGeorge,bothlostintheirthoughts.

“Youstillthere?”Georgeasked.

“Ofcourse,”Hughreplied.

Andthen,fromsomewherebehindthedesk,heheardasneeze.

—

IMMEDIATELY,IZZYSNEEZED,TOO.SHEfakedaseriesofsneezes,anallergicjagthatshouldhavewonheranOscar.Ifshecouldconvincehimthatithadbeenher, insteadof the twopeoplehiding in thesupplyclosetbehindthedesk,thenmaybetheywouldstaysafe.

Iftheshooterfoundthem,he’dalsorealizethatIzzyhadliedtohisfacewhenshetoldhimitwasempty.

Hespunaround,stalkedtothecloset,andyankedopenthedoor.

—

“GEORGE?” HUGH SAID. HE COULD hear commotion and shouting andsomethingclattering.“George,talktome.”Hisheartbegantopound.Whatthefuckisgoingon?

Hughheardagrunt.Ascuffle.“Getup.Getup!”Georgeyelled.

“George, what’s going on?” Hugh tried again. He swallowed hisworstsuspicions.“Areyouallright?Didsomethinghappen?”

There was a crash and a cry and then Wren’s voice: No, no,no…don’t!

AlloftheairleftHugh’slungs.Hewasparalyzed,terrifiedforher.His only hope lay in calming George down before he did theunthinkable.

“George,”heurged,“Icanhelp.Ican—”

“Shutup,”Georgesaid,andtherewasaclatter,andthenthelinewentdead.

T

Onep.m.

HE SHOOTERHADHUNGUP, BUTHUGHWAS STILL TRIUMPHANT.HE hadthe first puzzle piece he needed for this negotiation. George

Goddardhadrevealed—maybeintentionallyandmaybenot—whathadbroughthimtotheCentertoday.Thegreatestweaponanegotiatorhadwasinformation;knowledgewaspower.

Wasn’tthatwhathealwaystoldWren?

WhenWrenwasinmiddleschool,andhestillpackedherlunches,heusedtoincludeasandwich,abottleofwater,anapple,andanuggetofknowledge.Onapieceofpaper,he’dwritea fact:There’saplanetwhereitrainsglass.Ifyoucryinspace,thetearssticktoyourface.There’sa tinyaluminumsculptureon themoon.Yourbody ismadeoutofbitsofstarsthatexploded.Atomsaremostlyextraspace,andifyou squeezedall that spaceoutof theatoms thatmakeuphumans,therestofthemasscouldfit inlessthanonesquareinch.TheMilkyWayhasfourarms,nottwo.

None of these facts had included how to hide in a hostagesituation.Howtoprotectyourselfifsomeonecomesatyouwithagun,andyou’reunarmed.Hughcouldhaveeasilyfilledherheadwiththatwisdom because it was the bulk of his career knowledge. But forreasons he could not fathom right now, he had instead fed herinformationthatwouldmakeherthehitofacocktailparty.

Knowledge was power, and he had left his daughter without aweapon.Whichmeantthiswasuptohimtofix.

“You,” he called to a young detective. “Find out what GeorgeGoddard does for a living. If he’s married. How long he’s lived inMississippi.Ifthere’sabarhehangsoutat.Whereheboughthisgun.Ifhehasanypriors.”Thewomanblinkedathim.“Now!”

Shescurriedoff,andHughsankdownonthefoldingchairbehindhim.Heburiedhis face inhishands.Hemightalreadybetoo latetohelphissister.Hecouldnotaffordtomakeamistake.Itwasn’tjusthisprofessionalreputationontheline,thistime.

TheMilkyWayhasfourarms,nottwo.

Itwasn’tthatthesilhouetteofthegalaxyhadchanged.Itwasthatoften, you couldn’t see the shape of somethingwhen youwere stuckinsideit.Youcouldn’tbeobjective,ifyouweretooclose.

Itwaswhydoctorsdidnotoperateonrelativesandjudgesrecusedthemselves frommatters that involved themandhostagenegotiatorsstepped back from situations where they had a vested, personalinterest.

Well,Hughthought.Fuckthat.

—

BEXLAYONHERBACK,feelingthesoupofherbreathing,drowningevenon dry land. Everything hurt: inhaling, exhaling, blinking. She wasdizzyandfaintandfeltasifapikehadbeendriventhroughherchest.

AtleastWrenwassafe,still.IfBexhadtodietokeepitthatway,shewoulddoit.

Sheshouldhave toldHugh.Shecouldhave toldhimwhatWrenhadaskedhertodo,andmadehimswearnottotellWrenthatshehadsaid anything. Then he would have known they were going to theclinic,atleast.

Hewouldknowshewasinthere.

ButBexknew frompersonalexperience that theminutea fatherrealizedhisbabygirlwasn’tababyanymore,somethinginfinitesimalchanged in the relationship. Even if it seemed outwardly solid andunaltered, you could still sense it, like the broken bone that neverproperlyhealed,orthehairlinecrackinthevasetowhichyoureyewasunerringlydrawn.Andso,shehadkeptWren’ssecret.

Shewasgoodatthat.

Shefeltherselfstartingtoshiver.Didthatmeanshewasinshock?Thatshehadlosttoomuchblood?

Everyoneinthisroom,sherealized,hadastorythatendedwithinthese walls. If today hadn’t happened, many of those stories wouldhavegoneuntold.Therewereahundreddifferentpathsthatledtothecorner of Juniper and Montfort—from pregnancies that wereunwanted to those that were cherished, but impossible to carrythrough;fromyounggirlswhoweretryingtodotherightthingtothe

relativeswho lied for them.Herewas theone thingall thesewomenhadincommon:theyhadn’taskedforthismomentintheirlives.

Itwasgettinghardertobreathe.Bextriedtoturnherheadtowardthe closet, just in caseWren couldmiraculously see her through theslats.Ithurtsomuchthattheedgesofhervisionwentahot,searingwhite.

Bex made a promise to herself: if she got out of here—if shesurvived—shewouldtellHughthetruth.

Allofit.

—

GEORGESTAREDDOWNATTHEguninhishand.Nowwhat?

Hehadimaginedhisvengeanceasifitwereamoviehehadseenlongago,wheresomeonewrongedtookjusticeintohisownhands.HesawhimselfburstingthroughthefrontdooroftheCenterwithhisgunraisedlikeStalloneorWillis;hesawadoctorcoweringundertheheelofhisboot;hesawanapocalyptic landscapeofdestructionleft inhiswakeasheemerged,thevanquisher.

Hereiswhathadnotbeenpartofhisvision:theringinginhisearswhen thegun fired, thesprayofpeople’sblood, theway theybeggedformercy.

George glanced at the group of people huddled in the waitingroom.Thedoctor,injured.Thenursewhowashoveringnearhim.Theblondgirlwhokepttuggingatherhair.Theonewhohadjustkilledherbaby.Theladywhowasstrugglingtobreathe.Hehaddonethattoher.It made George feel sick, watching her suffer. In the abstract,eliminating everyone who was tied to the Center had seemedmasterful,necessary.Intruth,itwasmessy.

Thesepeoplewerepuppetsandtheirstringsweremadeofterror.Theirwhispers died theminutehe looked at them. I’mnotwhoyouthinkIam,Georgewantedtosay,butthatwasnolongertrue.Hewasexactlywhothesepeoplethoughthewas.

Hisfrustrationandfuryhadbeenalivegrenade,droppedintohishands.Whatwashesupposedtodowithit?Letittearhimtopieces?Instead,hehadrun.Farandfast,behindenemylines.Andthenhehadthrownitrightbackatthem.

Theyhuddledtogetherinthewaitingroom,leavingaslargeagapbetweenthemselvesandGeorgeastheycould.Theyseemedbewaitingforsomethingfromhim—ademand,atantrum,anexplanation.

Theyhadallheardhim talking to the cop.Theyknew therewassomeone out there who wanted to rescue them. Hope was a prettydamngoodweapon.

Ontheotherhand,Georgehadthispistol.Whenhewavedittheyjumped,theycried,theyshivered.Theylistenedtohim.

Hejusthadnoideawhattosay.

Hestartedtopace.Hehadcomeherewithintention,butnotwithaplan.Somehowhehadn’t imaginedthat therewouldbepeople left,whenhefinishedteachinghislessonofretribution.Heknewhowthesethings ended. In a standoff, with him and a bunch of cops in flakjackets.

Butthen,hehadmoreleveragethanjustthegun.

Hehadhostages.

—

WRENHUGGEDHERKNEESTO her chest in the closet andcursedherselffor being conscientious.Whoknew that trying to be responsiblewasdeadly?

She could have been likemost teenagers on the planet and justwaiteduntilthingsgotsointensebetweenherandRyanthatitwastoolate toplanahead.Shecouldhavebroughtapackofcondomsto theregister at the Rite Aid, or she could have told Ryan that it was hisproblem.But therehadbeenagirl inherhomeroom lastyearwho’dgottenpregnantandhadstayedinschooluntilherwaterbrokeduringgymclass.Wrenhadsatonthebleacherswithhertill theambulancearrived, holding her hand while the girl’s fingernails squeezed littlehalf-moonsofpainintoherskin.IsthereanythingIcando?Wrenhadasked, and the girl had turned to her, panting, and said, Yeah. UseanythingbutTrojans.

So instead, she and Ryan had talked about It. When to do It.Where to do It. SinceRyanwas the onewhowasworking out thoselogistics,Wren volunteered to be the one in charge of birth control.Which, as it turned out,was easier said thandonewhen youwere aminorandtryingtokeepyourprivatebusinessprivate.

So much for not being a risk taker. You could take all theprecautionsintheworld,andbadthingsstillhappened.

Thatmadeherthinkofheraunt.

WhenWren’s dad went to hostage negotiator training for a fewdays, and Bex babysat, she’d let Wren skip school. She called it amentalhealthday.Theywouldliewedgedtogetherinherhammockinthebackyard,likepeasinapod,andplayagameofchoice:Wouldyourathergrowatail,orgrowahorn?

Wouldyouratheralwaysbetoohot,oralwaysbetoocold?

Wouldyouratherstayovernightinahauntedmentalhospitalorhavetorideabrokenrollercoaster?

Wouldyourathereatnothingbutstuffing,ordrinkonlygravy?

Wouldyouratherknowthedayyou’regoingtodie,orknowhowyou’regoingtodie?

ForWren, the answers were obvious. A tail, because you couldhide it in clothing. Be too cold, because you could add layers to getwarm.Stayatthementalhospital,becausebeingterrifiedbeatsgettingkilled. Stuffing, because itwas stuffing. And knowing themethod ofyour deathwould be better, she had been sure, than counting downhowmuchtimeyouhadleft.

Wrenwascurrentlyrethinkingthatlastanswer.

Now,Wren thought of another one:Would you die if it meantsomeoneelsecouldlive?

Wasthatwhatheraunthaddoneforher?

WrenshiveredintheclosetbesideOlive,whosmelledlikelemonsandwasbeingreallynice,butallthingsconsidered,theoddsthattheycouldavoidgettingcaughthidingwereprettyslim.

At leastOlivewasold.That sounded terrible,Wrenknew,but itwas true. Olive had lived her life, ormost of it anyway. There werehundreds of things Wren hadn’t done. Sex, for one, but that was agiven. She’d never broken her curfew. She’d never gotten trashed.She’dneverbeenaskedtopromorgottenahundredpercentonamathtestorclimbedupthewatertoweratJacksonState.

Shehadn’tgottenherlicense,either.Shehadalearner’spermit—she’dappliedforitthedaysheturnedfifteen.Herfatherknewshehad

beenwaitingforthismoment,andwhenshebouncedintothekitchenonthemorningofherbirthday,hewasalreadywideawake,asifhe’dbeen waiting for her. He intentionally took his sweet time eatingbreakfast and finishing his cup of coffee while Wren squirmed,desperatetobetakentotheDMV.“Givemealesson,”shebegged,astheywalkedoutofthebuildingwiththatsacredpieceofpaper.

“Nowwhydidn’tIthinkofthat?”hesaid,grinning,andhedroveher to the police station parking lot, way out back, where they hadsummerFridaybarbecues.Hehadsetupanobstaclecourseoforangecones.Heshowedherhowtoadjusthermirrorsandcheckherblindspots, and for tenminutes alone theypracticed shifting the car fromparkintodrivewithherfootfirmlyonthebrake.

Eventuallyheletherinchbetweentheorangecones,movingfivemiles per hour. “You want to stay toward the middle around thecorners,”hetoldher.“Youneverknowwho’sontheotherside.”

“Gotit.”

“Butseriously,Wren.Therecouldbeabiker.”

“Okay.”

“Andmaybe there’snot abike lane, so you turn the corner, andyoucliphimandhegoesflyingoffhisbikeandsmackshisheadonthepavement and then you get out and call 911 and follow him to thehospitalandyoufindoutthathe’sdeadandyouhavetotellhisfamilyyou’rethereasonwhy.”

Sheglancedathim.“Dad.”

“Eyesontheroad!”

“Thisisn’tevenaroad!”

Heputuphishandsinsurrender.“Sorry.Turnleft.”

Sheputonherblinkerandrotatedthesteeringwheel.

“Youknowthatyoudon’thavetherightofway.”

“Therearen’tanyothercars.”

“Butifyoujumpoutinfrontofsomeonewho’sgoingstraight,andtheyT-boneyou,itwillprobablytaketheJawsofLifetogetyououtofthewreckage.Andbythen,yourribscouldbebrokenandpenetratingyourheartandyoucouldslowlybleedtodeath—”

“Dad.”

“Sorry. It’s just that thereareamilliondrivers Idon’tknowanddon’ttrust…andthere’sonlyoneyou.”

Wrenputthecarintopark.“I’mnotgoingtodieinacarwreck,”shevowed.

Her father looked out thewindow, eyes straight ahead. Thenhesmiled,thesamekindofhalfsmileshehadseenonhisfacewhenshetoldhimthatshecouldreadtoherselfatnightnow;thesamekindofsmilehe’dhadwhenshecrossedtheauditoriuminfifthgradetogetasillygraduationcertificate; thesamekindof smileaswhenshecamedownstairsforthefirsttimewearingmascaraandlipgloss.“I’mgonnaholdyoutothat,”hesaidsoftly.

—

THESHOOTERHADHERDEDTHE fiveof theminto thewaitingroom.Thefrontdeskwaslitteredwithglass.Therewerepamphletsscatteredallovertheplaceandsmearsofbloodonthecarpet.Furniturehadbeenpiled against the front door as a barricade—a coffee table, a filecabinet,acouch.ThetelevisionoverheadwasplayingTheChew.

Joyhadleftherpurseandherphoneintherecoveryroomwhensheranawayfromtheshooter.HisnamewasGeorge.Shehadheardhimsayit,onthetelephone.Helookedlikeanyofthemaleprotesterswhohadbeenstandingoutsideyellingatherassheranintotheclinic.Shedidn’tlistentoasinglewordtheysaid.Butsherememberedamanholdingababydollupsidedownbythefoot,withaknifestickingoutofitsbelly.

Tobeheretoday,shehadswitchedshiftsatthebarandsaidshewasgoingtoArkansastovisitherfamily.Ifanyoneelseweregoingtobeacasualtyofapro-lifeshooter,he’dpickthewomanwho’djusthadanabortion.Wasthisthekarmicpriceshehadtopay?Alifeforalife?

Wouldanyoneevenmissher?

“Hey.”Dr.Ward’svoicefloatedtowardher.“Youallright?”

Shenodded.“Areyou?”

“I’ll live. Maybe.” He grinned faintly at his own joke. “It’s Joy,right?It’sgonnabeokay.”

She didn’t knowhowhe could say thatwith such authority, but

sheappreciatedit, thesamewaysheappreciatedhiskindnessduringtheprocedure.

Ifshediedtoday,she’dbeafootnoteinanewspaper.

Shewouldn’tfinishherassociate’sdegree.

Shewouldn’tknowwhatitwasliketofallinlove.

Shewouldn’thaveachancetobethekindofparentsheneverhad.

Ahystericallaughbubbledinherthroat.Shewasahostage,atthemercyofalunaticwithagun.Thesolesofherfeetwereliterallysoakedwith thebloodofothers.Shehad steppedoveradeadwoman togetwhereshewassitting,andshemightverywellwatchmorepeoplediebeforehereyes.Shemightevenbeoneofthem.

Butatleastshewasn’tpregnant.

—

TOSAYTHISWASN’TGOODwasanunderstatement.

Izzy knelt down in front of Bex. She had managed to get thewomanoutofherblouseandcouldseetheexitwoundofthebullet.Ithadgonethroughtherightbreastandoutjustaboveherrightshoulderblade. But even with Janine pressing gauze onto the wound, Bex’sbleedinghadn’tslowed.

“We’regoingtotakegoodcareofyou,MizBex,”Izzysaid,smilingdownather.

Thewoman’sbreathingwaslabored.“I’m…I…”

“Don’ttrytotalk,”Dr.Wardsaid.“We’llpatchyouuplikenew.Ican’trisksullyingmyreputationasaphysician.”

That,atleast,broughtasmiletothewoman’sface.Izzysqueezedherhand.

“CanI…?”Janinelookedupather.Thegirl’shandswerecoveredwith Bex’s blood, and quivering with the effort she was making tostanchtheflow.

“No,”Izzysaidtightly.“Youcan’t.”

Thephonerangagain,andtheyallturnedtostareatit.Lasttime,Izzyhadbeentheonewhoansweredit.Theshooterhaddirectedhertodoitbyjerkingtheguninherface.

“Don’ttouchit,”hebarked.

Thephonerangtwelvemoretimes;Izzycounted.

Bex’s breathing was tighter, soupy. “Hard,” she said.“To…catch…my…”

IzzyreachedforBex’swrist,countingheartbeatsforherpulse,anddoingthemath:240beatsperminute;Bexwastachycardic.

“Sheprobablyhasatensionpneumothorax,”Dr.Wardsaid.“Wehavetogettheairoutofherchestcavitysoshecanbreathefreely.”Hetwisted,tryingtohaulhimselfuprightonhisgoodfoot,buthelosthisbalanceandcrashedontohisbadleg.

Izzytookthebulkofhisweight.“Thelastthingweneedrightnowisforyoutoplayhero.”

“What we need is a trauma doctor,” he said, meeting her gaze.“Anditlookslikethat’sgoingtobeyou.”

Izzyshookherhead.“I’mnotadoctor.”

“That’s just a bunch of letters after your name. You knowwhatyou’redoing,Ibet.”

Izzy had seen needle decompressions done before in a hospitalsetting,whentheyhadsterileconditionsandalltheproperequipment.ShealsoknewthatBexwasnotlongforthisworldwithoutsomekindof immediatemedical intervention. As air entered her pleural spacefrom thewound, the pressure would increase and collapse the lung,which in turnwould compress the heart and shift themediastinum.Thatmeantherheartwouldn’t pumpeffectively and the vena cava—thebigvesselthatreturnedallthebloodtotheheart—wouldn’tdoitsjob.

Bex started wheezing, fighting for air. Her body shook with theeffort.IzzygrabbedJanine’shandandpresseditdownharderonthegunshot wound. Then she stood, summoning all her courage. “Thiswomanneedsmedicalattention,”shetoldtheshooter.

Hestaredather.

“Doyouwanthertodie?”

Whatastupidquestion.Ofcoursehedid.Hewantedthemall todie.Itwaswhyhe’dcomeinwithagun.

“I can treat her. But I need to get instruments in the procedureroom.”

“You think I’m an idiot? I’m not going to let you go off byyourself.”

“Thencomewithme,”Izzysaid,desperate.

“Andleavethemalone?”Hegesturedaroundthewaitingroom.“Idon’tthinkso.Sitbackdown.”

“No,”Izzysaidflatly.

Heraisedhiseyebrows.“Whatdidyousay?”

“No.”Shebegantowalktowardtheshooter.Thegunwaspointedatherbelly,andher legswere likenoodles,butshemanaged to takeonestepandthenanotheruntilthebarrelofthepistolwassixinchesawayfromher.“Iwillnotsitdown.NotuntilyouletmegetsuppliessoIcansavethatwoman’slife.”

Hestaredatherforamomentthatlasteddays.ThenhesuddenlygrabbedJoyandkissedthepistoltoherhead.“I’mcountingtoten.Ifyoudoanythingstupid,orifyoudon’tcomeback,thiswomandies.”

A small, wounded whimper escaped Joy. Behind her, Bex wasoutrightgaspingforair.“One,”theshootersaid.

Two.Three.

Izzy spunonherheel and raceddown thehall to theprocedureroom.Four. She scrambled through drawers, flinging open cabinets,blindly grabbing whatever she could lay hands on as if this were amacabresupermarketsweep.Five.Sheliftedthehemofherscrubstopanddraggedherbootyoff thecounterand intothemakeshiftbasket.Six.Seven.

She scrambledback to thewaiting room,dumpingher treasuresalloverthefloor.

TheshooterletgoofJoy,whofell,trembling,ontothecouchanddrewherkneesuptoherchest.

“Pick those supplies up,” Izzy said to Janine. She pulled off thejohnny she had draped over Bex. The woman’s eyes were wide andterrified;theyfixedonIzzyasifsheweretheonlymooringinastorm.“Bex,”shesaidfirmly.“Iknowyoucan’tbreathe.I’mgoingtofixthat.Ijustneedyoutotrytostaycalm.”

Janine settled an armful of items beside Izzy: gauze and tubingandanumber15stabblade,aKellyclampandatenaculum,acurette.

Izzywasaproat fixingproblemswith littlebut ingenuity.Whenthestovebroke,youmadeacampfireandboiledeggsbyholdingthemup to the steam coming out of a kettle.When therewas nomilk forcereal,waterworked.When youwore through the sole of your shoe,youmadeaninsoleoutofcardboard.Ifgrowinguppoorteachesyouanything,it’showtoproblem-solve.

She picked up a 22-gauge needle. She had seen needledecompressions done before, but with bigger needles. This one wasdelicate, meant to inject lidocaine. It wasn’t long enough or stiffenough toprovidea release for theairbuildingup insideBex’schestcavity.

“Notgonnawork,”Dr.Wardcorroborated.“You’regoingtohavetoputinachesttube.”

ShemethisgazeoverBex’sbodyandnodded.

Izzypulledthetubingfromitssterileplasticpacket.ShereachedforaKellyclamp,andthenpickedupthestabblade.Shewishedshe’dhadthe foresight tograbBetadineoranalcoholwipe,but thiswouldhave to do. LiftingBex’s right arm, Izzy trailed her fingers to a spotbetweenthefourthandfifthribsandpaused.

Justbecauseshehadseenthisdonedidn’tmeanshewasqualifiedtodoitherself.

“Goonnow,”Dr.Wardurged.“Makethecut.”

Shedrew inherbreathandpressed thescalpeldeeply intoBex’sskin.Athinlineofbloodrose.Izzystuckherleftindexfingerintotheincision and felt for the chest wall, blocking out Bex’s scream. Shelifted theKellyclampwithherotherhandandslipped it throughtheincision.

“You’regoingtohavetopushhard,”Dr.Wardsaid.

Izzynoddedandmaneuveredthenoseoftheclampabovetherib,then punched through the chest wall with a pop. Immediately therewas a whoosh of air, and blood spattered into her lap. Bex gasped,finallyabletobreathe.

Ithadbeennotjustapneumothoraxbutahemothorax.Blood,not

air,hadfilledherpleuralcavity.

Izzy opened the clamp and twisted it back and forth tomake abigger opening in the chest wall.With her index finger, she felt theballoonofBex’slungasitroseanddeflated.Shepulledouttheclamp,keeping its nose open so that she didn’t accidentally snag the lung.Keepingherfingerstill insidethechestcavity,sheinchedthesuctiontubingintotheincisionuntilitreachedthetip.Onlythendidsheslideherfingerout.

Izzydidn’thaveanythingtoholdthetubeinplace,oranywaytosuture it in. So she grabbed the plastic package that the tubing hadcomeinandpresseditupagainstBex’ssidetomakeanocclusiveseal.Dr.Wardreachedforthetapethatshe’dusedtosecurehistourniquetandrippedofftwopiecesforhertosecuretheplastic.

“MissIzzy,”hesaid,impressed,“ifIdidn’tknowbetter,I’dthinkyouwereborntotheER.”

Thetubehaddone its job:bloodwasrunningfromthetubeanddripping on the floor. Izzy wrapped a towel around the end of it,wishingforacontainer.Withacontainershecouldmonitorhowmuchblood Bex had lost. Eventually, if Bex didn’t get a transfusion, shewoulddie.

Izzyfeltahandgrabhershoulder.Sheturnedtofindtheshooterholding a wastebasket. “Put it all in here,” he said, jerking his headtowardthediscardedinstrumentsonthefloor.

Shegathered theneedle, the tenaculum, thebloodyKelly clamp,andtheitemsshehadn’tused,andthrewtheminside.

“Isthatit?”hedemanded.

Izzynodded.

Hewaved thegun, gesturing thathewantedher to stepback sothat he could see for himself. Satisfied that nothing had been leftbehind, he backed away and set the wastebasket beneath thereceptionist’sdesk.

Bex grabbed her hand. She already looked more alert, anddefinitely more comfortable. “Thank … you,” she murmured. ShetuggeduntilIzzyleaneddown.

Hervoicewasaprayer.Savemyniece.

Izzydrewback,lookingatherface.Shenodded.

Izzy fussed with the edges of the tape where it met Bex’s skin.Withher freehand, she reachedbeneathBex’ship and retrieved thescalpel she had hidden there after making the incision. She leanedcloser,herhandsfoldedbetweenherandBex,sothatonlythetwoofthemcouldseeIzzyretractthebladeandslipitthroughtheneckofherscrubs,tuckingitintoherbra.

—

ALTHOUGHHUGHHADORDEREDTHEpolice toclear thearea, therewerestillstragglers.Themedia,whoweretoostupidorambitioustoleave.Gawkers,withtheircellphonesout,recordingfootagetopostonsocialmedia. There were still a few of the protesters, too, although they’dmoved a safer distance away to hold a prayer circle. Littered on theground they’d ceded were the hallmarks of their beliefs: a sign thatproclaimed ABORTION IS HOMICIDE; dolls painted with fake blood andabandoned in haste, limbs twisted on the concrete in their ownminiaturecrimescene.

Hughcouldn’trememberthelasttimethecopshadbeencalledtoan altercation here at the Center. For years the employees hadcoexistedwiththeprotestersthewaythatoilandwatersettledinajar:in the same space, but separate. Each side had an odd, grudgingrespectforthefactthatinspiteoftheobstacles,theybothshowedupeverydaytodotheworktheybelievedneededtobedone.Theprotesthadmostlybeennonviolentandcivil.

Except,Hughnoticed,rightnow.

A ripple of surprise ran through the protesters, triggering someinnatereflexhehadforimpendingtrouble.Heturnedaroundintimeto see a young woman with pink hair break through their littlesanctimonioustangle.Itwasthegirlhehadinterviewedanhourago,theemployeewhohadcalled911afterrunningoutoftheCenterwhenshootingbegan.Shestoodtoe-to-toewithoneoftheprotesters,atall,roundmanwithashockofwhitehair.

“Rachel,”themansaid.“Please.Comepray.”

Hughwatchedherpokethemaninthechest.“Allen,youdonotgettoactlikethiswasn’tallyourfault.”

Hewasmildlysurprisedtorealizesheknewhimbyname.

“He’snotoneofus,”Allenreplied.

“Howcanyouevenstandhereandsaythat?”shecried.“Ifpeoplelike you didn’t spout the bullshit you do, people like him wouldn’texist.”

Hughtookastepforward.“Thisisanactivehostagesituation,”hesaid.“Youallneedtogohome.”

“I can’t,” Rachel sobbed. “Not until I know everyone in there issafe.”

“That’swhywe’repraying.There’ssomeonepro-life inside,”saidAllen.

Hughranahandthroughhishair.“Clearly.”

Theprotestershookhishead.“Someoneelse,”heclarified.“She’sahostage.”

—

IN TENTH-GRADEDEBATE CLASS,JANINE had todebateRoev.Wade. Shestood toargue foroverturning it,herknees tremblingas shepressedthemtogether,andsayingthatabortionwasendingalife.Shehadlostthe debate, according to her teacher, who was pro-choice. ButafterwardagirlnamedHollycameuptoherandaskedifshewasbusySaturdaymorning.Whichwas how Janinewound upwith her armslinked to those of two strangers who were part of Holly’s church,formingahuman“lifechain”thatstretchedforamile.

Overtheyears,Janinehadnotwaveredinherbeliefthatlifestartsat conception. And yet, it was something she usually kept secret,becausewhenyouadmittedyouwerepro-lifepeoplestartedlookingatyoulikeyouwerenotsosmart,orlikeyouwerepartofareligiouscult.Ortheysaidtheywerepersonallyopposedtoabortion,butbelievedinawoman’srighttochoose.Thatwaslikeinsisting,I’dneverabusemykid,butI’mnotgoingtotellmyneighborhecan’tbeathisson.

Janinehadkeptcomingbacktothistruthlikealodestone.ItwaswhatbroughthertoMississippitoworkwithAllen.Theyweresoclose—onlyoneclinicawayfromriddingthestateofabortionfacilities.

She liked the other protesters. In addition to Allen, there wasMargaret, who had CP, and who said the rosary as patients passed.There was the professor, who taught at the university. Ethel and

Wandahandedoutblessingbagsasthewomenwalkedintotheclinic.

It had been Allen’s idea that as their youngest member, Janineshouldstartavloginwhichsheexplained,fromamillennialpointofview,whyabortionwasmurder.Herfirstinstallmentwasgoingtobecalled“InsidetheAbortionFactory.”

Shehadwanted togetupcloseandpersonal.But shehadneveranticipatedthis.

Janinehadnearlythrownupwhenthenurse,Izzy,cutintoBex’sflesh.Withoutanesthesia.WithBexwideawake.Theskinbeneaththescalpelhaddividedtobecomeahowlingmouth,redandangry.

Janinelookeddownatherarms,coveredtotheelbowsinblood,andsuddenlyitallhither.Shehadhadherhandsinanotherwoman’schest.Shewas trappedwithagunmanwhodidn’t realize thatoneofhishostageswasjustasdisgustedbyabortionashewas.Shestartedtoweaveonherfeet.

IzzylookedupasJaninegrabbedontothewallforsupport.“Areyougoingtofaint?”sheasked.

Herownvoicewasdistantandbuzzy,likethatoftheconductoronatrainyoucouldneverreallyhear.Ihavetogetoutofhere.IzzyputareassuringarmaroundJanine’sshoulders.“Ihavetogetoutofhere,”Janinesaidmorefirmly.

“Let’stakesomedeepbreaths,”Izzysaid,withanoteofwarninginher voice. She flicked her eyes toward the gunman, who had turnedaroundtostareatthem.

“No.”Janinewrenchedaway.Shewalkedtowardtheshooter,whoheldthegunatwaistlevel,pointedather.“Sir,excuseme,butIdon’tbelonghere,”shesaid,smilingathim.

“Sitthehelldown,”hegrowled.

“I’m like you, not them. I’m not a patient. I was herebecause …Well, it’s a long story.” She reached up and took off herblondwig,revealingapixiecutofdarkhair.“Ithinkabortionisasin.Theykillbabieshere,andtheydeserve…theydeserve…”Sheglancedaround to find everyone in thewaiting roomstaringather in shock.“Pleaseletmego,”shebegged.

“Bequiet,”theshooterdemanded.

“IpromiseIwon’t—”

“Stoptalking—”

“I’lltellthemyou’reareasonableman.Agoodman.Withagoodheart, trying togiveavoice to theunborn.”She tooka step forward,emboldened.“YouandI,we’reonthesameside—”

Janinesawtheshooterlifthisweapon.Andtheneverythingwentblack.

—

NOBODYMADEAMOVE TO help the girlwho’dbeen coldcocked.Hadhenot been immobilizedwith a tourniquet, Louie couldn’t even say forsurethathe’dhavedoneit,theHippocraticoathbedamned.

Shemusthavecomeheretotrytotrapthem.Foryears,nowtheantishadinfiltratedclinics,tryingtofindproofofthemythologythatfetalpartswerebeingsoldandthatemployeeswereforcingwomentoterminate late-term pregnancies. The result? People believedthem…somuchsothatitinspiredviolence.InColorado,amanshotup a Planned Parenthood because he was certain they were sellingbabyorgansandtissue.

Whoknewwhatlieshaddriventheshooterhere,today?

Louie knew all the protesters; it was really a matter of self-preservation.ThereweretoomanydarkroadsinMississippi,toomanyplacesforhiscartobedrivenoffintoaculvert,liketheyusedtodotocivil rights activists. So Allen had complimented him on his haircutrecently.Wanda offered donuts to the staff everyMonday.Raynaud,whoworethesandwichboardwithphotosofbodyparts,didn’tmakeeyecontactwithanyone.MarkonlycameonTuesdaysandsatonhiswalker,hisoxygentankintowforhisemphysema.Ethel,whoknitthebootiesandcapsthatwentintotheblessingbags,hadoncegivenLouieapairofmittensatChristmas.

Therewerethosewhoweremoredisruptive:protesterswhotookphotos of the license plates of cars parked in the lot and publishedthemonwebsitesso that theycouldbeharassed;protesterswhohadcreatedageo-fencingmechanismsothatasyoucamewithinacouplehundred feetof the clinic, yourphone’sbrowserwouldbe filledwithanti-abortion advertising. (WhenLouie checked Facebook atwork, apop-up reminded him that he could keep his baby.) Davis, a young

minister, blocked incoming cars with his body and screamed at thepatients, telling them theywere going to hell. ReverendRusty, fromOperation Save America, drove down from Wichita every couple ofmonthsinanoldVWbuswithagroupoffollowershecouldwhipintoafrenzywithhishorsewhipvoiceandrattlesnakeeyes.

Every now and then there was someone new. Last March, aChristiancollegehadaspringbreaktriptoMississippi,andabusloadof fresh-faced college students picketed for a full week. Therewas aman who showed up for a few days with a snarling pit bull, but hedisappearedasquicklyashe’dcome.Therewasthetime,aboutayearago, when a crazy protester barreled into the clinic and chainedhimself to an ultrasound machine—not realizing that they wereportableandcouldbewheeledout,whichwasexactlyhowthepolicetransported him from the building to arrest him. And, apparently,therewasJanine.

With that wig off her head, he recognized her as an anti. Hecouldn’tbelievethattheyhadbeenunderthesameroofandhehadn’trecognizedher,untilthatmoment.Itmadehimfeelfoolish.Violated.

When Louie was a boy,Miss Essie would come visit and sit ontheir porch and complain about the head of the ladies’ auxiliary atchurch, yet every Sunday she’d be cozying to the woman as if theysharedatwinbed.Betterthedevilyouknowthanthedevilyoudon’t,shewouldsay,whenhisgrandmamacalledheronherhypocrisy.

Thenfindyourselfmoresuitablecompany,hisgrandmamausedtoargue.

Louie imagined that this young ladyhadbeen trying to saveherownskin.Clearly,ithadbackfired.Whensheregainedconsciousness,wouldsheapologizetothewomenwho’dcometothisCenterbecausetheyhadreachedtheendof theirropes?OrtoIzzyandhimself,whofought society and politics and, yes, violence, to give thosewomen alastchance?

She could apologize a thousand times to Vonita, but it wouldn’tbringherbacktolife.

This woman lying feet away from him would probably besurprisedtoknowthatshewasnotthefirstpro-lifertowalk intotheCenter.Hehadpersonallyperformedabortionsonatleastadozen.

Louiedidnotknowasinglecolleaguewhohadn’tdonethesame.

Thesewomenclaimedtobepro-lifeandinsistedthefetuswassacred,until it happened to be inside them and didn’t squarewith their lifeexpectations.Theywouldcomeintotheprocedureroomandsaythatitwasdifferent, for them.Or theywouldbring theirdaughtersandsaythat obviously thiswas an exception. Louiewanted to point out thateveryone who walked through the Center’s door was someone’sdaughter.Buthedidn’t.

If these women burst into tears on Louie’s table because theyneverimaginedthemselvesthere,hedidnotcallthemhypocrites.Anyofus can rationalize the thingswedo.Buthehoped empathywouldspread,aninvasiveweedofcompassion.

Adayortwolater,afterheperformedtheirabortions,thesesamewomenwouldcallhimakilleragainashewalkedfromhiscarintohisplace ofwork.Hedidnot consider them frauds.Heunderstoodwhytheyfelttheyhadtogobacktobeingwhoeveryoneelseintheirsocialcirclesbelievedthemtobe.

Indeed,whenpro-liferscametohimtoterminateapregnancyandtoldhim that theydidnot believe in abortion,LouieWard said onlyonething:

Scootdown.

—

PROBLEM SOLVED, JOY THOUGHT BITTERLY. Want to clear up a divisiveissue?Throwallthepartiesintothecrucibleofahostagesituation,andletthemsimmer.

Shelookeddownattheunconsciousbodyofthewomanwhohadbeen suffering beside her. Never in a hundred years would it haveoccurred to her that she was an undercover anti-choice protester. Ifshehadknown,wouldJoyhaveevengivenherthetimeofday?

Thiswaskarma,initspurestform.Itwasn’tasifJaninehadjustwanderedintothewrongplace,likeJoyhad.

Yesterday,shehadgonetothewrongclinic.LiketheCenter,itwaspaintedorange.ItwasliterallyaroundthecornerfromtheCenter.ThesignevensaidTHEWOMEN’SCENTER,asiftheyweredeliberatelytryingtoconfusepatients.

The waiting room was filled with posters of fetuses in differentstages:IAMSIXWEEKSANDIHAVEFINGERNAILS! IAMTENWEEKSANDICAN

TURNMYHEADANDFROWN! IAMSEVENTEENWEEKS—I JUSTHADADREAM! Ithadseemedpatently cruel toher, tohave theseposterson thewalls,but maybe they were meant to weed out the women who were stillunsureoftheirdecision.Joyclosedhereyes,sothatshewouldn’thavetolookatthem.

Sheheardhernamecalled,andasmilingwomanwithadarkcapofhairledherbacktoacubicle.Thewomanworealabcoatandhadthe name Maria embroidered over her heart in loopy script. “Howaboutwe startwithanultrasound!”Maria said, andJoy realized shewasoneofthosewomenwhospokeonlyinsentenceswithexclamationpoints.“Toseehowfaralongyourbabyis!”

Ontheexaminationtable,JoywatchedMariasquirtgelontoherbelly and then rub the ultrasoundwand around. “Look at your littlemiracle!”Mariasaid,turningthescreentowardher.Onthescreenwasafullyformed,chubbyblack-and-whitebaby.

Joyhad lookedon the Internet; she knewher fifteen-week fetuswasaboutthesizeofanapple,maybefourincheslong.Butthisthingonthescreen,itwassuckingitsthumb.Ithadhairandeyebrowsandfingernails. It looked like it could crawl already.As she stared at theultrasoundscreen,shenoticedthatthemovementsandtwitchesofthefetuswererepetitive.Itwasplayingonaloop.

Joy cleared her throat. “I think maybe there’s been amisunderstanding,”shesaid.“I’mhereforanabortion.”

“Youknow if yougetanabortion,youprobablywon’tbeable tohavechildren…ever!Andthat’sifyousurviveinthefirstplace,”Mariasaid.

Shewenton:“Doyougotochurch?Doesyourboyfriend?”Eventhese questions sounded enthusiastic. “If you’ve let Jesus into yourheart,”Mariasaid,“Hedoesn’twantyoutokillyourbaby!”

BynowJoywasutterlyconfused.“IthinkI’vemadeamistake.”

Mariagraspedherarm.“Iamsogladtohearyousaythat.Wecanhelp you, Joy. We can help you and your child. We have lots ofresourcesonadoption!”

AsuspicioncreptintoJoy’shead.“I…needtothinkaboutit,”shesaid,pullingdownhershirtandsittingup.

Mariabrightened.“There’snorush!”

Eventhatwasalie.JoyknewshehadexactlyfourdaysbeforeshecouldnolongerlegallyhaveanabortioninthestateofMississippi.

Itwasn’tuntilshewasoutonthestreet,breathinghard,thatshelookedupandsawtheactualCenteracrossthestreet.Sheranpasttheprotesters who shouted at her and repeatedly pressed the intercombutton.Theelectronicdoorlockbuzzed,andJoyhurriedinside.

“Is this theCenter?”sheaskedthewomanat thereceptiondesk,whonodded.“You’resure?”

“Ibetterbe,sinceIowntheplace.Doyouhaveanappointment?”

Shehadanametag—VONITA.WhenJoyapologizedforbeinglate,Vonitaknewexactlywhathadhappened. “Goddamnpregnancycrisiscenter,” Vonita said, “pardon my French. They’re like weeds—sprouting up next to every abortion clinic, to purposely confusepatients.”

“I’mprettysurethey’reabunchofquacks.”

“I know they are,” Vonita said. “The state’s got us jumpingthrough a hundred legal hoops just to keep our license, and they’recompletely unvetted. They tell you we don’t have real doctors here?Andthatyou’llprobablybleedtodeath?”Sheshookherhead.“You’remorelikelytobehitbyabuscrossingthestreettogetherethanyouaretodiefromcomplicationsfromanabortion.”

You’remorelikelytodiefromsneakingintoanabortionclinictomakesomekindofmoralpoint.

Witha sinking feeling, Joy realized that Janinehadgottenwhatshe wanted. It may not have been the way she intended, but in alllikelihoodthisclinicwasnowgoingtoclose—ifnottemporarily, thenpermanently.Vonita,theowner,wasdead.Andwhowouldbewillingtocomehereafter this?WhatwouldhappentowomenlikeJoy,whowerefifteenweekspregnantandscheduledforanabortiontomorroworthedayafter?

JoyglanceddownatJanine’ssprawledbodyagain.Itjustwenttoshowyou:therewasnorightwaytodothewrongthing.

Excepttonotdoitatall.

She could feel the prickle of everyone else’s eyes on her as sheslowlykneltonthecarpetinfrontofJanine.

Go figure.Whenyoucradleda liar’shead inyour lap, it felt justlikeanyoneelse’s.

—

INAWAY,OLIVETHOUGHT,beinginthedarkwasevenharderthanbeingout there with the others. She could hear conversations, stomping,crashes. She knew when the shooter was angry and she knew whensomeonewas inpain.But because she couldn’t actually seewithherown eyes, she began to paint pictures in her mind of what washappening.Andwhatshecoulddreamwitha fertile imaginationhadtobemuchworsethanthereality.

Right?

Besideher,Wrenshuddered.“Doyouthinkhekilledher?”

Therewasnoneedtoaskwho.Thewomanwhohadbeenbabblingabouthowtheykillbabiesherehadfallensilentafteraheavythud.

“Hedidn’tshoother,”Olivewhispered.

“Thatdoesn’tmeanshe’salive.”

“The brain can do a lot of things,” Olive said, “but it can’tdistinguish between what’s really happening, and what you’reimagining. That’s why scary movies scare you and why you cry atNicholasSparksbooks.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

“Youtalklikeateacher,”Wrensaid.

“Guiltyascharged,”Olivesaid.“Iusedtoteachatthecollege.”

Sheconsideredthewomanwho’dinsistedshedidnotbelonghere.Olivecouldhavesaidthesame.TheCenterwasallaboutreproductivechoices,andshedidn’thaveanyofthoseleft.ButshewouldneverhavejeopardizedWren’s life by throwingopen the closet door to saveherownskin.

“IfIdie,”Wrenmurmured,“they’llmakeashrineatschool.”

Oliveturnedatthesoundofhervoice.

“They’ll put flowers underneath my locker. And posters sayingRESTINPEACE,andphotosofmedoingstupidthings,likewithmyface

painted for Spirit Day or dressed like Supergirl for Halloween. Ithappenedlastyear,withagirlwhodiedofleukemia,”Wrensaidsoftly.“Allthesepeoplepretendingtheymissme,whentheyneverevenknewme.”

Olivereached forherhandandsqueezed it. “You’renotgoing todie,”shesaid.

Asiftopunctuateherpromise,Wren’sphonebuzzed.

—

RUSTILLSAFE?Hughtexted.

Thosethreedotsappeared,scrolling,andheletoutthebreathhewasholding.

Therewassomeoneyelling&thenathud&nowit’squiet.

He wondered how many women were in there, other than hisdaughterandhissister.

HeknewhisresponsibilitywastoeveryhostageinsidetheCenter,butthetruthwas,hewasthinkingonlyofBexandWren.

AuntBex?hetyped.

???don’tknow.

Whenhewas a kid, and he’d gone somewhere after school, Bexused to insist thathe call herwhenhe arrived.Hehated it—itmadehimfeellikehewasthebiggestloser.Itwasn’tuntilhehadWren,andworried about her every minute she wasn’t with him, that heunderstoodwhyhissisterhadbeensovigilant.Thereasonyouholdontosomeonetootightlyisn’talwaystoprotectthem—sometimesit’stoprotectyourself.

Hughstareddownathisphone,asifhecouldwillWrencourage,strength,hope.Staycalm,hetexted.

...

...

Daddy,Wrenwrote,I’mscared.

ShehadnotcalledhimDaddyforalongtime.

When Wren was little, Hugh had come upstairs to find her

scrubbingherfacewithlemons,tryingtogetridofherfreckles.Ihavespots,shehadsaid.I’mugly.

You’rebeautiful,he’dtoldher,andthoseareconstellations.

Thetruthwas,shewashisuniverse.

Parenthoodwaslikeawakeningtofindasoapbubbleinthecupofyour palm, and being told you had to carry it while you parachutedfromadizzyingheight,climbedamountainrange,battledonthefrontlines.Allyouwantedtodowastuckitaway,safefromnaturaldisastersandviolenceandprejudiceand sarcasm,but thatwasnot anoption.You lived in daily fear of watching it burst, of breaking it yourself.Somehowyouknewthatifitdisappeared,youwould,too.

He wondered if the women who’d come to the Center thoughtdifferently.

Then, reconsidering, he imagined it was exactly what theythought.

I’mhere,hetextedWren,andhehopedthatwouldbeenough.

—

BETHSTAREDATTHESTRANGEman inher room.Acop.Notoutside thedoor, but inside it, and watching her. It was creepy as fuck. As if itweren’tbadenoughthatshewashandcuffedtothebedrail.

Shewantedherfather.Shewishedshecouldtexthim,apologize,cry,beg,butherphonehadbeentakenawaybythepolice.Washeinthe hospital cafeteria, or taking awalk, or just sitting in his car andreplaying thehorrible things theyhadsaid toeachother?Bethknewthatifshecouldseehisface,talktohimdirectly,shecouldmakehimseethatnothinghadchanged;thatshestillneededhimasmuchas,ifnotmorethan,before.Shewouldspendamonthinchurchwithhim,ifhewanted,atoningforhersins.Shewoulddoanythingtogobacktothewayithadbeen.

Whenthedooropened,sheturned,hopeswelling.Butshehadn’tconjuredherfatheratall.Itwasastrangemaninasuit,withashockofdarkhair.Hewasfollowedbyastenographer,whosetupamachineinthecornerneartheradiator.

“Hello,Beth,”hesaid.“I’mAssistantDistrictAttorneyWillieCork.Howareyoudoing?”

Shelookedfromthismantothecop,andthenhereyessettledonthestenographer,awoman.Whenshewaslittleandhadtogopee,herfatherusedtoaskawomantotakeherintotheladies’room.Heusedto say if she ever felt like sheneededhelp, she should find someonewholookedlikeagoodmother.

Which,sherealizedwithashock,disqualifiedBethherself.

Maybehewasherlawyer.Shehadaskedforone.Shewasn’tquitesurehowthatworked. “Hello,”Bethsaidsoftly,andat thatmoment,thedoor flewopenagainandasmall tornadocycled in.ShewastinyandBlackandtheaircrackledaroundher.

“Your pasty manhood might get you a pass in just abouteverythinginthiscountry,Willie,butevenyouknowbetterthanthis.Youdon’tgettotalktomyclientwithoutrepresentationpresent.”

“Such a warm welcome, Counselor,” the ADA drawled. “Guessyou’vemissedme.”

“Willie, when it comes to you, a tiny bit goes a long way. Likearsenic.Ornuclearfallout.”Sheglanceddownatthehospitalbed.“MynameisMandyDuVille,I’myourpublicdefender.You’reBeth,yes?”

Bethnodded.

“Okay, Beth. Do not talk to anyone unless I’m present,understand?”Shefacedtheprosecutor.“Whyareyouevenhere?Don’tyou have bigger things to do? Like passing a bogus voter ID law orgerrymanderingthedistrictsbeforeyournextelection…”

“OfficerRaymondhere calledmedown to the scene, and rightlyso,”WillieCorksaid.“Ihaveneverseenanythingsodisturbing inallmy years serving Lady Justice.We had an arrestwarrantwithin thehour.”

Mandy slid a glance toward the cop at the door. “Nathan,” shegreeted.

“Cuz,”hesaid.

The prosecutor handed Mandy a file. “Knock yourself out,” hesaid,andBeth’slawyeropenedthefolderandbegantoread,hereyesflyingbackandforth.

“Self-abortion,” Mandy read. “Pills?” Her lawyer snapped thefolder shut and focused her gaze on Beth’s handcuffed wrist,

awkwardly balanced on the rail. “She’s a child. Maybe a hundredpoundssoakingwet.Isthatreallynecessary?”sheaskedWillie.

“Thiswomanisamurderer,”theprosecutorsaid.

“Allegedmurderer.”

Beth’s eyes darted from person to person. It was like theywereplayingtennis,andshewastheballbeingvolleyedbackandforth.Sheshifted,jinglingthechainonherwrist.“Ididn’t—”

“Stop talking,” Mandy interrupted loudly, holding up her palm.“Nathan,”sheasked,“canIpleaseleanoverandwhispertomyclientforamomentofconfidentiality?”

“That’sOfficerRaymondtoyou,”Nathansaid,“andno.You’llstaytwofeetawayfromthedefendantatalltimes.”

Thepublicdefenderrolledhereyes.“Beth,Ineedyoutotellmeifyouunderstandwhat the state is sayingyoudid.Notwhetherornotyouactuallydidit.”

BethblinkedatMandy,utterlyconfused.

“Okay. I’m going to enter a not guilty plea on your behalf, andwaive the bail argument until you’re released from here andtransportedtotheprison.”

Beth’sjawdropped.“Prison?”

Just then, the door to the room opened and a hospital securityguard crammed himself inside, followed by a bailiff who was easilyseventy and anothermanwho changed the entire tone in the room.Immediately, both lawyers stood a little straighter. The cop put hishandonhisweaponandwedgedhimselfbetweenBethandthejudge;the other security guard pushed Mandy further away from Beth toclearapath.“She’snotCharlieManson,”Mandymurmured.

“Allrise,”thebailiffannounced,andBethlookeddownatherlegsin thehospitalbed. “TheHonorableJudgePinotof theThirdCircuitJudicialDistrictCourt.”

TheprosecutorofferedPinotanoilysmile.“YourHonor,”hesaid.“DidIhearthatyoushotundereightylastweekatthecountryclub?”

“Noneofyourdamnbusiness,Cork,”thejudgemuttered.“Ihatehospitalarraignments.”Hestareddownattheonlychairintheroom,whichwasoccupiedbythestenographer.“Istherenotanotherseat?”

“Thereisn’tmuchroominhere,”thebailiffsaid.

“Maybe we make some by getting rid of what’s extraneous.Startingwithyou.”

“But,YourHonor,”thebailiffinsisted.“I’mheretoprotectyou.”

Bethwonderedwhattheythoughtshewasgoingtobeabletodo,chained to the hospital bed.Thehospital security guard got a swivelchair fromsomewhere and crammed it into the room,whichpushedMandyevenfurtherawayfromBeth.

“Fortheloveofallthat’sholy,”JudgePinotsaid,“areweready?”

Bethwonderedifanyonewouldbebraveenoughtopointoutthathewasthecauseofthedelay.Butno.

“Yes,we’reready,YourHonor,”Mandysaid.

“Indeed,”theprosecutorsaid.

The judge slipped on a pair of reading glasses and read thecomplaintoutloud.Beth’snamewasn’tpartofit,justherinitials.

“Doyouunderstandwhat’sgoingonheretoday?”thejudgeasked.

Bethshookherhead.

“Thisproceedingisbeingrecorded,ma’am,”thejudgeprompted.“Youneedtoanswerthequestionaudibly.”

“Notreally,”shemurmured.

“Well,pursuanttoMississippiCodesection97-3-37,section1,andMississippiCodesection97-3-19,sectionD,you’rebeingchargedwithhomicideforintentionallycausingthedeathofachildinutero.Underour state law, murder is defined as the killing of a human beingwithouttheauthorityoflawwhendonewithdeliberatedesigntoeffectthe death of the person killed. Also under our state law, the termhuman being includes an unborn child in every stage of gestation,from conception to live birth. The charge is punishable byimprisonment for notmore than twenty years or a fine of notmorethan seventy-five hundred dollars or both, because your conductresultedinthemiscarriageofthatchild.”

Twentyyears?thoughtBeth.Seventy-fivehundreddollars?Bothnumberswereincomprehensible.

“The only miscarriage here, Your Honor, is a miscarriage of

justice,”Mandyinterrupted.

He leveledaglanceather.“Idosuggestyouwatchyourself,MizDuVille.”ToBethheadded,“Howdoyouplead?”

“Icanexplain—”

“No,”Mandyinstructed.“Beth,Iknowyouhavethingstosay,butdon’ttellthemtoanyonebutme.Icankeepwhatyoutellmeprivate.Theycan’t.Allyouhavetodonowissayguiltyornotguilty.”

“Notguilty,”shewhispered.

“Wherearetheparents?Whobroughtherhere?”thejudgeasked.

Beth waited for someone to ask her; they were acting like shewasn’teventhere.“DamnedifIknow,”WillieCorksaid.

“Yourbailrecommendation,Counselor?”

“Giventheseriousnatureofthisviolentcrimeagainstavoiceless,unborn child, and given the grave indifference that the perpetratorseemstoshow,Iwouldrequestthatshebeheldwithoutbailpendingtrial.”

“Youbastard,”Mandymuttered.

“Ibegyourpardon,MizDuVille?”Thejudgeraisedabrow.

“Isaidhemustbeplastered.Tothinkthat.”ShewavedanarminBeth’s general direction. “I’d respectfully request to waive a bailargument until my client is transported to jail. This isn’t graveindifference,YourHonor.Thisisshock.Thisdefendantisachild,YourHonor. A seventeen-year-old child, who had an abortion in theconfinesofherownhome.”

“MyGod,youyourselfwereonceinthesamepositionasthatpoordefenselessbaby,”Willieargued.“Thedifferenceisthatyouweregivenachancetoexist.”

“YourHonor,ifitpleasethecourt,mayIsaysomething?”

JudgePinotsettledmoreheavilyonhisswivelchair.“Somethingtellsmeyou’regonnawhetherIsayyesornot.”

Mandy faced the prosecutor. “Willie, you can stand on top ofMountEverest and shout that lifebeginsat conceptionall youwant,but if thishospitalwasburningdownandyouhadtodecidebetweensavingafertilizedeggintheIVFlaborababyinthematernityward,

whichwouldyouchoose?”

“That’safalseequivalence—”

“Whichwouldyouchoose?”Mandyrepeated.

“Nobody is tryingtosay it’sallright tokillachild inplaceofanembryo.Thisisaboutallowingtheembryotobebornand—”

“Exactly.Thankyou forprovingmypoint.Noone truly believesthatanembryoisequivalenttoachild.Notbiologically.Notethically.Notmorally.”

For a moment, the room was still. Then Willie said,“Unfortunately for you, the state of Mississippi does believe they’reequivalent.”HeflickedhiseyestowardBeth.“Thereisnodistinctioninthelawbetweenwhethershekilledagrownadultorafetus—”

“Allegedlykilled,”Mandymurmuredbyrote.

“—exceptthathadshemurderedanadult,hecouldhavecriedforhelp.”

Thejudgeclearedhisthroat.“MizDuVille,weareacourtoflaw,andinthisstateall thatneedconcernus isthatthechildthatwasinthedefendant’s body is nowdead, and shewas theproximate cause.ForthisreasonIamsettingbailatfivehundredthousanddollars.Thedefendantwillhave twenty-four-hour-surveillancewhile she is in thehospital, and upon discharge, shewill be released to the county jail.Court is adjourned.” He hefted himself out of the chair and pushedpast everyone elsewith thebailiff close onhisheels.At thedoor, heturnedtoBeth.“Andyou,younglady—mayGodhavemercyonyou.”

BethwasadevoutChristian.ShehadworshippedJesus,shehadprayedtoHim,shehadtrustedHim.

ShebelievedinGod.

Shehadherdoubts,though,aboutwhetherGodbelievedinher.

—

ITHADBEENNEARLYANhoursinceIzzyputthechesttubeintoBex,andshewas running out of time. Somuchbloodhaddrained out that ithadsoakedthroughtwotowels.

“Favor,”Bexsaid.

Izzyleaneddown.“Anything.”

“Youtellmyniece…”shewheezed.“Thatthisisn’therfault.”

“You’regoingtotellheryourself,Bex.”

Asmileplayedoverher lips, a shadowbehindherpain. “I thinkwebothknowthat isn’tso,”shesaid.Sheclosedhereyes,anda tearsliddownhercheek.“IwishIcouldtellhimwhatIknow.It’snotthegoodbyethathurtsthemost.It’stheholeyou’releftwith.”

Izzystaredather.Sheknewwhatitfeltliketogowithout;ithadbeen the guiding premise of her childhood. But she had never beenwhat was missing. Once she told Parker it was over, she would be,though.Breakingsomeone’sheart,itseemed,causedequaldamagetoyourown.

Shedidn’tknowanythingaboutBex,except for the fact that shewas an artist, and that she had a niece who was somehow stillmiraculouslyhidden.Bex’slifewasathreadinsomeoneelse’stapestry,andthatwasreallyallthatmattered.

Izzystoodupandapproachedtheshooter.“Thiswomanisgoingtodiewithoutmedicalhelp,”shesaid.

“Thenfixher.”

“I’vedonewhatIcan,butI’mnotasurgeon.”

Shelookedaroundthewaitingroom.IthadgottenpainfullysilentsincehehadsmackedJanineacrossthebrowandknockedherout.Joywassittingwithher.Janinehadstirredafewtimes,soIzzyknewshewasn’tdead.“Iheardyouonthephone,”Izzyblurtedout.

“What?”

“Youknowwhatit’sliketolosesomeoneyoulove.”Shestaredintohisemptyeyes.“Allofus,wehavefamilies,too.Please.Wehavetogethertoahospital.”

Beforeshecouldwonderifhewouldlistenorshoother,thephonerang.

—

THE FIRST TIMEGEORGE REALIZED hewas a superhero, Lilwas only sixmonths old. They had both gotten sick with the flu, and exhausted,George lethersleepnext tohim.Buther feverhadbrokensometimebefore his, and she woke up and started to roll off the edge of themattress.Eventhoughhewouldhaveswornhehadstillbeenasleep,

George’s hand snapped out and grabbed the baby byher foot beforeshecouldfall.

Hesupposedthatallfatherswerelikethat.Therewasthetimeshewasatoddlerandgotherfootstuckinthenarrowslatsofafenceinthepastor’sbackyard.EarlenehadbeenbabysittingwhileGeorgehadgonetogetsomefertilizerforthechurchgardens,andwhenhecamebackforLil,he’dheardherhystericalcries.Georgewasoutofthecarbeforehe’devenfinishedslammingitintopark.Earlenehadtriedeverythingandwasintearsherself.“I’vecalled911,”shetoldhim,tryingtosoothethebaby.

“Fuck 911,”George said, and he smashed through the slatswithhisfist,grabbingLilandcradlingheragainsthimevenashisbleedinghandstainedherdress.

Some of the hurts in theworldweren’t even physical.When Lilwas eight, some little shit of a boy in Sunday School told her shecouldn’tplaypirateswiththembecauseshewasagirl.HehaddoneforLil what Pastor Mike did for him when he thought he was worthnothing.

Hebeganbypretendinghehadforgottenhowtoturnonthestoveto boil thewater for the spaghetti. “Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes.“Youjustturntheknob!”

“Canyoushowme?”

Andshedid.

Then he pretended that he couldn’t remember how to use ahammer correctly. She curled her hand around his and patientlyexplainedhowtohitthenail,justafewtapsatfirst,sothatyoudidn’thurtyourself.

Hepretendedthathedidn’tknowhowtoreplacealightbulb,howto clean the fishbowl, how to mix plaster, how to fly a kite. A fewmonthslater,theywenttoachurchfair.“Idon’tthinkIrememberthewaybackto thecottoncandy,”he toldLil.Heheldouthishand,butthistime,sheshookherhead.

“Daddy,”shesaid,“youhavetotry.Iwon’talwaysbehere.”

Her words had struck him so hard that he couldn’t move, andpanickedas shewalkedoff andwas swallowedupby the crowd.Butshemadeherwaytothecottoncandy,justlikeheknewshewould.It

wasoneofthefewtimessincehehadcometotheEternalLifechurchthathetrulydoubtedtheexistenceofGod.Whattwisteddeitywouldgrantyouthesuperpoweroffatherhoodtoprotectsomeonewho,oneday,wouldnotneedyou?

—

ON THE TWELFTH RING, GEORGE picked up the phone again. “Hello,”Hughsaidcalmly.“Everythingokayinthere?”

“Don’tactlikeyou’reonmyteam.”

“I am, though,” Hugh replied. “I’m gonna make sure everyonelistenstowhatyouhavetosay,sothatthisendswellforallofus.”

“Oh,Iknowhowthisends,”Georgesaid.“YoucallinyourSWATteamandwipemeoutlikeamosquito.”

“There’snoSWATteamhere,”Hughsaid,whichwasactuallytrue.They were still assembling; they had only been called forty-fiveminutesago.

“YouthinkIbelievethatyou’retheonlycopoutthere?”

“There are other policemenhere.They’re concerned, but no onehereisgoingtohurtyou.”

“Ibetyouhaveasnipertrainedonthedoorrightnow.”

“Nope.”

“Proveit,”Georgesaid.

A shiverwent downHugh’s spine. Finally. A bargaining chip. “Icanprove it to you,George, andgiveyoupeaceofmind.But I thinkyoushouldhavetogivemesomething,too.”

“I’mnotcomingout.”

“Iwasthinkingofoneofthepeopleinside.”Iwasthinkingofmydaughter.Mysister.“It’struetheyarepressuringme,George,tohavea SWAT team assembled. But I said that you and I are having arational conversation, and that we should wait. If you send out ahostage,that’sgoingtogoalongwaytoconvincingmychiefthatI’mright.”

“Youfirst.”

“DoIhaveyourword?”Hughasked.

Therewasalongpause.“Yes.”

Proof there’s no sniper. Now that he’d promised it, how did heexecutethat?

Hughscrambledoutofhiscommandtent,stillholdinghisphone.Herandown thesidewalkaway fromtheclinic,blindlygrabbing thefirst cameramanhe could. “Dude,” the guy said, backing up. “Handsoff.”

“Whodoyoubroadcastfor?”

“WAPT.”

“Filmme,”Hughdemanded.“Now.”Heliftedthephonetohisearagain.“George?Youstillthere?”

“Yeah…”

“Is there aTV?”Please,God, let there be a television. “Turn onchannelsixteen.”

Heheardascuffle,andayell,andthevoiceofawoman.“George?”heasked.“What’sgoingon?”

But he could hear his own voice coming from theTV inside theCenternow.Thecameramanhadtheblackeyeof thecameratrainedonHugh’s face.“George, it’sme.Youcanseewhat’sgoingonbehindme, right?” To the cameraman, he said, “Film thatway. Pan aroundme.”

Hughkeptnarrating.“It’slikeIpromised,George.Nosnipers.NoSWAT team. Just some cops who are controlling the scene.” Thecamera swungback to focus onhis face. “So.Wehave a deal, right?Whoareyougoingtosendout?”

—

GEORGEFOUNDHIMSELFTRANSFIXEDBYthefaceonthetelevisionscreen.Hugh McElroy was one of those men who looked tall, even if youcouldn’tseehiswholeframe.Hehadblackhairthatwasmilitaryshort,andeyesthatlookedliketheblueheartofaflame.HewasstaringintothecameraasifhecouldseerightintoGeorge’smind.

Ifhe could,hewouldknowwhatGeorgewas thinking.All thoseyearswithLilthathe’dbelievedhimselftobeherchampion?Hewasn’tahero.

Hugh started speaking as if he could indeed read George’sthoughts.“Whateveryoudid,George,andwhyeveryoudidit—doesn’tmatter.That’soveranddonewith.Whatmattersiswhatyoudonow.”

George had given his word. He didn’t believe that it meantanythingtoHugh,really.Butthefactthathe’daskedforithadmadeGeorgefeel…well…respected.

Foronce.

George stalked toward the nurse, the bitch who kept remindinghimthattherewerepeoplebleedingalloverthefloorasifhecouldn’tseeithimself,andhauledheruprightbyherarm.“Pickone,”hesaid.

—

IZZYLOOKEDATLOUIEWITHherheartinhereyes.Henodded.EvenifitfeltlikeaSophie’schoice,Bexwasthehostagewhoshouldbereleased.Therestofthemstuckinthisroommightdie.ButBex, ifshestayed,woulddie.“You’vegottogetherout,”Louiesaid.

“Bex,”Izzychose.

Theshooterstarteddraggingthecouchandchairsandtablesawayfromthefrontdoorwherehe’dstackedthemlikeabarricade.

Louie watched him, his eyes narrowed. He looked like any of ahundred white male antis Louie had seen outside clinics. The vastmajorityofprotestersweremen,anditmadeperfectsensetoLouie—themaleofthespeciesfeltthreatenedbythebiologyofwomen.Evenin the Bible, normal female biological functions were madepathological:youwereuncleanwhenyouhadyourmenses.Childbirthhad tooccur inpain.And therewas thequestionablenatureof thosewhobledregularly—butdidnotdie.

Therewas,ofcourse,thehistory,too.Womenhadbeenproperty.Their chastity had always belonged to a man, until abortion andcontraceptionputcontrolofwomen’ssexualityinthewomen’shands.Ifwomencouldhavesexwithoutthefearofunwantedpregnancy,thensuddenly the man’s role had shrunk to a level somewhere betweenunnecessary and vestigial. So instead, men vilified women who hadabortions.Theycreatedthestigma:goodwomenwanttobemothers,badwomendon’t.

Vonita,Godresthersoul,usedtosaythatifmenweretheonestogetpregnant,abortionwouldprobablybeasacrament.TheSuperBowl

halftime show would celebrate it. Men who had terminatedpregnancieswouldbeaskedtostandandbeapplaudedatchurch forthecouragetomakethatdecision.Viagrawouldbesoldwithacouponforthreefreeabortions.

God.LouiemissedVonitaalready.

Fortyyearsago,Vonitahadhadanabortion.Itwasn’tlegalthen,buteveryoneknewtherewasawomaninSilverGrovewhoworkedoutofhergarage.Whenthewomandiedinthe1980sandherpropertygotsoldandthenewpeopletriedtoputinagarden,theyduguphundredsoftinybones,thesizeofabird’s.

Vonita told Louie that she herself dreamed of the daughter shedidn’thave.Shedreamedsovividlyofarguingwithher lostdaughterthat shewokeupwithher throat raw;once, shehaddreamedofherdaughterbraidingherhairandwokeupwithitinneatcornrows.

Shewaswellawarethatalthoughabortionhadbeenlegalized,thestigmastillexisted,eventhoughoneinthreewomenwouldhaveone.Vonita thought it was her personal calling to create a placewhere awomancouldsafelygetanabortionifsheneededone,aplacewhereawomancouldbesupportedandnotjudged.

She had opened the clinic and when she couldn’t find a localabortiondoctor,she’d trackedLouiedownandaskedhimto fly in toprovideservices.Hehadneverconsideredsayingno.

“Ican’tcarryher,”Izzysaid,interruptinghisthoughts.

“There’s a wheelchair.” Louie pointed to a spot where one wascrammedbesideafilecabinet,beyondVonita’sbody.

TheshooterjerkedhisgunatIzzy,indicatingshecouldgetit.Sheranbehind the receptiondesk,pastVonita. Shedragged the chair towhereBexlay,straddledthewoman,andslippedherarmsunderBex’sarmpitstolifther.WithastrugglethatLouiewatched,helplessly,shemanagedtogetthewomanintothewheelchairandretapedtheplasticsealoverthechesttube.

Bex coughed and then fought for breath, adjusting to her newposition.

“You walk her out,” the shooter said, “and then you come rightback.Or I start shooting.”Hegrabbed thedoorknob from the insideand swung it toward him, so that he was hidden behind the slab of

wood.Sunlightfellintotheroom,silhouettingIzzyandBex.

That slice of light inched close to Louie as the door opened.Heleaned a little to the left, wincing, until he could cup the ray in hispalm. Suddenly he was seven years old again, sitting on the porchwhilehisgrandmamasnappedbeans.Theairwasstickyandthewoodunder his thighs was hot enough to sear the backs of his legs. Hestretched out his small hand, trying to catch the sun that spilledthroughtheleavesofthecypresstrees.Hewonderedifithadcometodance forhimalone,or if itwouldputon itsshowevenafterhewasgone.

H

Noon

UGH HAD BEEN THE THIRD POLICEMAN TO ARRIVE. His unmarked carscreamed to a stop behind a cruiser. He was immediately

approachedbytwowide-eyedbeatcops,who’dbeenthefirsttoreachtheCenterafterDispatch’s all-hands-on-deck call reportinganactiveshooting.“Lieutenant,”oneofthecopssaid.“Whatdoyouwantustodo?”

“Whatdoweknowsofar?”

“Nothing,” said the second officer. “We got here ten secondsbeforeyoudid.”

“Haveyouheardanygunfire?”

“No.”

Hughnodded.“Untilmorebackuparrives,positionyourselvesatthenorthwestandsoutheastcornersofthebuildingincasetheshootertriestoleavethebuilding.”

The cops hurried away. Hugh started running a checklist in hismind. He would need the street cordoned off. He would need acommand center. If the shooterwasn’t coming out, hewouldneed adirect line inside to speak to him. He would need to get rid of thepeopleliningthestreetwhothoughtthiswasentertainment.

Hispersonal cellphonewasbuzzing frantically inhispocket,buthe ignoreditashereachedintohiscarandcalledDispatch.“I’mon-site,” he told Helen. “I’m securing the scene. Shooter’s still inside,presumablywithhostages.Hasanyonegottenholdofthechief?”

“Workingonit.”

“Call the regional SWAT team and get them here,” Hugh said.“AndgetmeaerialphotosoftheCenter.”

As he hung up the radio, three more squad cars arrived. Hereached intohisbreastpocket,pushing thebuttonon the sideofhisphonetodismisswhoeverwouldn’tleavehimthefuckalonewhilehe

triedtokeepanightmarefrombecomingevenmoredisastrous.

When others were paralyzed by panic or overwhelmed byadrenaline,Hughkeptcalm,steady,clearheaded.Hedidn’tyetknowifthere were survivors inside the building, nor did he knowwhat hadhappened that brought this gunman into a collision path with himtoday.Buthewouldfindoutfast,andhewouldmoveheavenandearthto get the guy to put down his weapon before there was any moredamage.

Evenashe instructedadditionalbeat copsonhow to secure theperimeter and what materials he needed to do his job, Hugh waspraying. Well, maybe not praying, but pleading to the universe.Prayingwasforpeoplewhohadn’tseenwhatHughhadinhis lineofwork. Praying was for people who still believed in God. He wasfervently hoping that this asshole with a gunwas onewho could beeasilydefused.Andthattheshotshe’dfiredmighthavestruckplasterorglass,andnotpeople.

Within minutes, Hugh was managing thirty-odd policemen. Hetapped impatiently on his thigh. He needed to have the area securebeforeheinitiatedcontactwiththeshooter.Thiswashisleastfavoritepartoftheprocess:waitingtobeginthework.

Hisphonebegantobuzzagain.

Hughdrewitoutofhispocket.Thereweretwenty-fivemessagesfromhisdaughter.

Thereisamomentwhenyourealizethatnomatterhowwellyouplan,howcarefullyyouorganize,youareatthemercyofchaos.It’stheway time slows the moment before the drunk driver crosses themedian lineandplows intoyourvehicle. It’s theseconds that tickbybetweenwhenthedoctorinvitesyoutotakeaseat,andwhenshegivesyoubadnews.It’sthestutterofyourpulsewhenyouseeanotherman’scar in the driveway of your house in the middle of the day. Hughlooked down at the home screen of his phone and felt the electricshiverofintuition:heknew.Hejustknew.

HeclickedonWren’smessages.

Help

There’ssomeoneshooting.

I’mherewithAuntBex.

She’shurt.Idon’tknowwheresheis.

Dad?Areyouthere?

DADTHISISANEMERGENCY

IDON’TKNOWWHATTODO

DAD

Hestoppedreading.Hishandsfeltlikeleadandallhisbloodwaspoolinginhisgut.WhywasWreninthere?WhywasBexinthere?Hemanagedtotypeoutaresponse:

Whereareyou?

ThelongestmomentinHugh’slifewasthebreathhehelduntilhesaw those three littledots thatmeant shewas typing.Hesank tohisknees,hisbodysinging.

Hiding,shewrote.

Staythere,Hughtyped.I’mcoming.

Heshouldrecusehimself.Thewholepointofhostagenegotiationwastobeclearheaded,andhecouldn’tbeobjectiveifhisowndaughterwasahostage.Stayinginchargeherewouldbeagainsttherules.

He also knewhe didn’t care. Therewasnowayhewas going totrustWren’slifetosomeoneelse.

Hestartedtoruntowardtheclinic.

—

TO BEX, AIR HAD BECOME fire, and every breathwas charring her raw.Some tiny cell of self-preservation warned her to crawl somewhere,anywhere,thatshecouldhide.Butwhenshetriedtorolltohersidetheagony that stabbed through hermade it impossible; the world wentwhiteattheedges.

Shestaredoverhead,herbrainmakingpatternsofthefluorescentlights and the tilesof thedropped ceiling.Thatwaswhat artistsdid,theyarrangedtheunarrangeableintosomethingthatmadesense.

When she created her canvases, with their giant pixels, shewasfiltering impressionismthroughtechnology.Thekeytohertechniquewas that the human eye—the human brain—did not have to seeindividual parts to imagine the whole. It was called Gestalt theory.Similarity, continuation, closure—these were some of the principles

thatthemindcraved.Itwouldcompletelinesthatweren’tfullydrawn;itwouldfillinboxesthatwereempty.Theeyewaspulledtowhatwasmissing,butmoreimportant,theeyefinishedit.

MaybeHughwouldbeabletodothat,too,ifsheweregone.Finishherwork.

And yet she also knew that there was another tenet of art: theobserver could easily miss what wasn’t obvious. An optical illusionworked because the brain focused on the positive space of a chalice,andnotthenegativesilhouettesofthetwoprofilesthatformedit.Butjust because the viewer saw a goblet didn’t mean the artist, whilecreatingthepiece,hadn’tbeenwhollyfocusedonthosefaces.

MaybeonedayHughandWrenwouldholdagalleryretrospectiveofherwork.Maybeshewouldachievefamebydyingrelativelyyoung.And only then, maybe, would they realize they were the subjects ofeveryoneofherpieces.

Thiswastheworstpainshehadeverfelt.

She openedhermouth to say their names, but foundher throatwasfilledwiththewordsofLeonardodaVinci:WhileIthoughtthatIwaslearninghowtolive,Ihavebeenlearninghowtodie.

—

LOUIE COULDN’T HEAR. THE SHOTGUN blast had left him with a heavy,seededsilencepushingonhisears,theabsenceofsoundhammeringinhishead.He rolledover,whichhurthis leg somuchhis visionwentblurry,andhethoughthewasabouttoloseasecondsense.HefoundhimselflookingatHarriet,thenursewho’dbeenworkingwithhimintheprocedure room thatmorning,whowas sprawledon the floor aswell.Harriet’sbrowneyeswerewideandhermouthwasopen.Therewasabullethole,neatasathumbtack,inthecenterofherforehead.Afeatheredfanofbloodsprayedthewallbehindher.

Louieturnedhisheadandvomited.

He found himself thinking of Bras Coupé, the most famousrunawayslaveinLouisiana,whocouldn’tbekilledbyabullet.HisrealnamehadbeenSquire,andhehadbeenabambouladancer.WhenhestompedandwhirledatCongoSquare,thevoodooladieswouldriseuplikespiritscalledtoservice.Asaslave,hehadbeenownedbyGeneralWilliamdeBuysandwouldjointhegeneralonhuntsandexpeditions.

He was even allowed to carry arms. But that wasn’t the same asfreedom,asLouie’sgrandmamatoldhim,soSquireranawayoverandoverandover.Duringonerecapture,hehadbeeninjuredandhadanarm amputated, earning him his nickname. The next morning, he’drun away again from his hospital bed into the swamps. There, hepulled togethera ragtaggroupofescapedslaves,andatnight, they’ddescendontheplantations,carryingofffemaleslavesandevenwhitewomen.

Bras Coupé had become a legend of infamy. Slave hunters toldtales of shooting him, yet seeing the bullet pass throughhis body.Acityguardclaimedtohaveshothimandbeatenhimtodeath,butwhenlawmencametothespotwhereithadhappened,BrasCoupéwasgoneagain,leavingonlyatrailofbloodthatdisappearedintotheswamp.

Maybetosurvivenow,Louiehadtobecomeaghost,too.

Hepushedhimselfuponhisforearms,intentonhiding,gruntingatthepainthattorethroughhisleg.Dr.KingjoinedBrasCoupéinhishead:Ifyoucan’t fly, run. Ifyoucan’t run,walk. Ifyoucan’twalk,crawl.Butbyallmeans,keepmoving.Basedontheradiatingcenterofthepainandtherhythmicpulseofthebleeding,hewouldguessthathe’dbeenshotinthesuperficialbranchofthefemoralartery,thathisfemurhadbeenshattered.Hemightbeabletocrawlsomewhereandconceal himself, but he’d bleed out unless he could fix this first.Hegrittedhisteethandinchedforwardonhiselbows,untilhecouldgrabthehandleofacabinet.

Insidewas the sterile tubing used to connect the cannula to thesuctionmachine.Hetorethepacketwithhisteethandtriedtotietheclearrubberaroundhis thigh. Itwas like trying tomakeaChristmasgift bow alone, though—no matter how hard he worked at it, hecouldn’t knot it tight enough. And the pain, it was like no pain he’deverfelt.

The edgesofhis visionbegan to godark, like theborders at theendofoneofthoseold-timesilentmovies,justbeforetheyshrankintoapinpointofdarkness.Louie’sfinalthoughtbeforehepassedoutwasthatthiswasindeedsomecrazyworld,wherethewaitingperiodtogetanabortionwaslongerthanthewaitingperiodtogetagun.

—

HUGHWASHALFWAYTOTHEfrontdooroftheclinicwhenhecrashedinto

acop.“Lieutenant?”theofficersaid.“ThisisRachelGreenbaum.She’stheonewhocalledintheshooting.”

Heblinked.Hehadtoshakehisheadafewtimestoclearit,toletgoofWren’sname,whichwascaughtlikeabitbetweenhisteeth.

What had he been thinking? Well, obviously, he hadn’t been.Charginginsidewasamistake.Hecouldn’thelpWrenifhegothimselfshot.

“Ms.Greenbaum,”hesaid,takingabreath.“Whydon’tyoucomewithme?”

Slowly,heloosenedhisdeathgriponhisphoneandslippeditintohis pocket. He led her in the other direction (away from the clinic;away fromWren and Bex, goddammit) to a spot where two officerswerehastilyerectingaTyvekcanopyoveracardtableandacoupleoffoldingchairs.Therewasalsoalaptop.

Hesatdownandofferedherachairaswell.Thegirl—heputherinhertwenties,maybe—hadcotton-candypinkhairandahoopinhernose.Hermascarahadrun,givingherraccooncirclesunderhereyes.Shewaswearingapinnywithbuttonsonit:THINKOUTSIDEMYBOX.MAYTHEFETUSYOUSAVETURNOUTTOBEAGAYABORTIONPROVIDER!

“YouworkattheCenter?”heasked,reachingforapadandapen.

She nodded. “I’m a jack-of-all-trades. I do everything fromescortingpeopleinfromtheparkinglottoadmintoholdingthehandsofpatientsduringprocedures.”

“Youweretherewhentheshootercamein?”

Rachelnoddedandstartedtocry.

Hughleanedforward.“Iknowhowhardthismustbeforyou.Butanythingyoucantellmeisgoingtomaketheoddsmuchgreaterthatwecanhelpyourfriendsinside.”

Shewiped her eyeswith herwrist. “I came in late thismorningbecausemycarbrokedown.Ihadjustarrived.”

“Canyoudescribeindetailwhatyousaw?”

“Thewaiting roomwas pretty empty,”Rachel said. “Thatmeantthegroupinfosessionwasfinished.”

“Groupinfo?”

“Wehave todoone everyday for thenextday’sprocedures. It’sthe law,” she explained. “Therewere only a couple of patients left, Ithink.”

Wasoneayounggirl?Hugh thoughtdesperately.Or awomanwith eyes the same color as mine? But the cop who had broughtRachelGreenbaumoverwasanarm’s lengthaway.Hecouldnotriskhimoverhearing.

“Vonita was at the front desk.” Rachel looked up. “Vonita’s theowner of the clinic,” she said, and then she started to cry again.“She…she’sdead.”

“I’msosorry,”Hughsaidevenly,buthishearttripped.WrenhadsaidthatBexhadbeenshot.Wasshedead,too?

“Shewasdrinkingadietshake.Shehates—hated—dietshakes.Wewerejokingaroundandthenthebuzzerrang,anditwashim.”Rachelglanced at Hugh. “We’re not like Planned Parenthood, with securityguardsandmetaldetectors. Iguessweoperateonhopesof southerngentility.Wehaveprotesters,buttheykeeptotheirsideof thefence,and theCenterdoor is always lockedand there’s an intercom. If youdon’t come inwithaknownescort, all youhave to say is that you’rethereforanappointment,orthatyou’rewithsomeonewho’sthereforan appointment, and thenwhoever is at the deskwill push a buttonandletyouin.”

“Wasitunusualtohaveamanshowup?”

Sheshookherhead.“Wegetboyfriendsandhusbandscomingtopickuppatientsallthetime.”

“Didhesayhewastheretopickupapatient?”

“No,”Rachelsaidquietly.

“Whatdidhelooklike?”

“Idon’tknow.Ordinary.Shorterthanyou.Brownhair.Plaidshirt.A jacket.” She could have been describing half the citizens ofMississippi.

“Whatkindofgunwashecarrying?”

“I-Ididn’tseeone.”

“Handgun,then,”Hughsaid.“Notarifle.”

Rachel wiped her eyes as another police officer approached.“Lieutenant?Dispatchcamebackwiththeplateregistrations.”

His first order had been to run the plates of every car in theparkinglot.Therewereonlyadozen.NowHughshuffledthroughthedriver’slicensephotos,subtractingoutthewomen.“Anyoftheseringabell?”

Rachelhesitatedatthefirstone.“ThisisDr.Ward,”shesaid.“Heworksforus.”Thensheturnedthepage.“That’shim.”

“GeorgeGoddard,”Hughread.“Excusemeaminute.”Hepickeduphisphoneandpushedafewbuttons.“Dick?Yeah,Iknow.Listen,IhaveanactivesituationI’mworkingandthehostagetaker’sgotacarregistered inDenmark.Canyoudoadrive-by?”Heglanceddownatthescreenafterhehungup.Wrenhadnottextedagain.

“Didhesayanything?”Hughasked.

“I was going to lock upmy backpack in Vonita’s office,” Rachelsaid.“Iheardhimcomein,andcomeuptothedesk,andVonitaaskedifshecouldhelphim.Iexpectedhimtosayhewaslookingforhiswife,orpickinguphisgirlfriendorsomething.Buthesaid,‘Whatdidyoudotomybaby?’andhestartedshooting.”

“‘Whatdidyoudotomybaby?’”Hughrepeated.“You’resure?”

“Yes.”

“Didhesayanythingelse?Didhementionanyonebyname?”

“Idon’tknow.”

“Diditseemasifhe’dbeentotheCenterbefore?”

“I-I’mnotsure.”

“Didheseemlikealocal?Haveanaccent?”

Shelookedupathim.“Doanyofus,hereinMississippi?”

“Thenwhathappened?”

Rachel buried her face in her hands. “He shot Vonita. I duckedunderherdesk.Iheardmoreshots.Idon’tknowhowmany.”

“Didyouseeanyoneelseinjured?”Didyouseemysister?

“No.ItriedtotakecareofVonita,butshedidn’t…shewasn’t…”Rachelswallowedhard.“SoIran.”Shestartedsobbing.

“Rachel, listen,”Hughsaid. “Yougotusonto thescene fast.Andthankstoyou,nowIknowthattheshooterisn’tintherebecausehe’son a philosophical crusade. This is personal, which will help meconnectwithhim.”Heleanedforward,hiselbowsonhisknees.“You’reluckyyougotout.”

Thetearsstartedfallingharder.“I’mnotlucky.”Shesuckedinthetruthlikeshewasbreathingthroughastraw.“Isawhim,throughtheone-way glass.Andhewaswearing a coat. I noticed it, becausewhowears a coatwhen it’s eighty-fivedegrees?But I didn’t stop to thinkabout it. I justbuzzedhim in.”She folded intoherself,anorigamiofgrief. “What if I was the one who could have stopped it fromhappening?”

“Thisisnotyourfault,”Hughsaid,butitwasn’tjustRachelhewastryingtoconvince.

—

THEYHADSHOWNJOYINTOarecoveryroomafterherabortion,whereshehadchangedbackintohersweatpantsandbaggyT-shirt,andsatdowntorest.Asshereclinedinaleatherchair,shedozed,dreamingofwhensheusedtobabysitforatoddlernamedSamara,wholivednextdoortoher foster family. Samara had the roundest cheeks and tiny Bantuknotsandlittlewhiteraptorteeth.Shewoulddothehandmotionsto“ItsyBitsySpider”ifyousangittoher,andshedidn’tlikecrustsonhersandwiches.Hermamawentout twiceaweek tonightschool,whichwaswhenJoywould comeover, feedSamaradinner, andputher tobed.

Samara’smama,Glorietta,tookahalfhourtosaygoodbyetoherdaughter.Shewouldsmotherherfacewithkissesandactlikeshewasgoingtobegoneforayear,notthreehours.Whenshegothome,shewould go check on Samara and inevitably wake her up with hertouches and hugs, evenwhen Joy hadworked hard to get her to godown. Sometimes, Glorietta would come home in themiddle of herclass,sayingshemissedherbabytoomuchandneededtobewithher.ShealwayspaidJoyforthefullamountofbabysittingtime,soitwasawin-win,butJoythoughtitwaskindofstrangeallthesame.

OnenightJoycamehomefrompracticetofindsixpolicecarsonher street, and an ambulancepulledup in front ofGlorietta’s house.Samarawasdead.Gloriettahadsmotheredher inhersleep.She told

thepoliceitwassothatherdaughterwouldstayanangelforever.

Youneverknewwhatwentonbehindcloseddoors,asanyfosterkidcouldtellyou.Joyhadn’tthoughtaboutSamarainyears.Butnowshewondered: If a childdied, in the afterlife, did theykeepgrowingup?WouldSamarabetherewithJoy’schildnow?Wouldshebabysithim?

AscreamwokeJoyup.Thesadwomanwasgonefromthewaitingroom and the playlist had ended. Just then, she heard a crash, thesoundofglassshattering.“Hello?”shecalled,buttherewasnoanswer.

She slowly inched toher feet. She felt thepad inherunderwearshift as she stood, and the hot rush of blood that came with beingupright.

Thencamegunshots.

She couldn’t move fast enough. Her limbs weren’t workingproperly;itwasasifshewereswimmingunderwater.

She struggled down the hallway with jerky, furtive movements.Her pulsewas so loud, like a timpani keeping count, as she tried toremember the way out of the clinic, but the sound of footstepsapproachinghadhergrabbing for thenearestdoorknobandduckingintoaroom.Sheclosedthedoorandlockeditandrestedherforeheadagainstthecoolmetal.

Please,sheprayed.Pleaseletmelive.

—

GEORGEGLANCEDDOWNATTHEredheadednurse,whoflinched.

Hewouldhavekilledher.Hecouldhavekilledher, toget to thedoctor.Except,ifhekilledher,hewouldalsobekillingherbaby.

Whichwouldmakehimnobetterthantheassholebleedingoutonthefloor.

Frustrated,helookedawayandtooknoteforthefirsttimeofhissurroundings.Theprocedureroom.HadthisbeenwhereLilwas?Hadshebeenscared?Crying?

Hadithurt?

He had onlymet one womanwho had ever gotten an abortion.Alicebelongedtotheirchurchandsheandherhusbandhadjustfound

out that they were going to have a baby when she learned she hadlymphoma.Thecongregationhadprayedhard,butthathadn’tstoppedthe advanced cancer diagnosis and the medical necessity to havesurgery and start chemo. Pastor Mike had told her that God wouldunderstandifsheterminatedthepregnancy,anditwasproventrueayearlaterwhenshewascancerfreeandpregnantagain.

Georgerememberedhowonce,hehadcomeintothechurchearlyone morning during the week to find Alice, now healthy and eightmonthspregnant,sitting inapewandsobbingherheartout.Hehadneverbeenone for cryingwomen, sohepassedherhishandkerchiefandshifteduncomfortably.“CanIgetthepastorforyou?”he’dasked.

She’dshakenherhead.“Maybejustsitwithme?”

ItwasthelastthingGeorgewantedtodo,butheloweredhimselfintothepew.Heglancedatherbelly.“Guessitwon’tbelongnow.”

Alice started to cry, and he fell all over himself to apologize. “Iknowit’sablessing,”shesobbed,“butit’snotareplacement.”

Two,Georgerealizednow.

Heknewtwowomenwhohadhadabortions.

—

IZZYCOWEREDASTHEGUNMAN turnedtoher,abruptly,anddraggedhertoherfeet.Aboltofpainshotthroughherarm.“Whoelseishere?hedemanded,hisbreathhotonherface.“Howmanypeople?”

“I-Idon’tknow,”Izzystammered.

Hegaveherahardshake.“Think,dammit!”

“Idon’tknow!”Shefeltlikeshewasmadeofsawdust.

“Answerme!”heordered,wavinghisguninherface.

Hewrenchedherarmagain,andtearscametohereyes.“This iseveryone!”sheburstout.

Justlikethat,heletgoofher.Shestumbled,managingatthelastmomenttonotfallontopofthedoctor’swoundedleg.Shelayonherside,hereyesshuttight,waitingtowakeupfromthisnightmare.Anyminutenow,shewould.Parkerwouldbeshakinghershoulder,tellinghershe’dbeenmakingsoundsinhersleep,andshewouldsitupandsay,Ihadthemosthorribledream.

The shooter sank to his knees.He rubbed the barrel of his gunagainsthistempleasifhehadanitch,andthiswasanextensionofhisfinger. Then he lowered the pistol and stared at it as if he waswonderinghowthehellitgotintohishands.

Couldsherushhim,rightnow?Couldshegrabthegun,andholditagainsthim?

Asifhecouldhearherthoughts,heleveledthegunatheragain.“Howcanyoubepregnantandworkhereeverydayandbeokaywithwhathappens?”

“Please,youdon’tunderstand—”

“Shut up. Just shut up. I can’t think.”He got up and started tomoveinasmallcircle,mutteringtohimself.

Izzy inched toward the doctor. She could tell from the trickle ofbloodathislegthatheneededabettertourniquet.Shefelthisneckforapulse.

“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Myjob,”Izzysaid.

“No.”

Shelookedupathim.“I’lldowhateveryouwant.Butletmehelpthesepeoplebeforeit’stoolate.”

The shooter glanceddownather. “First, you roundupeveryoneelse,andgetthemallintooneplace.Thefrontarea.Withthecouch.”

Thewaiting room. Izzywincedas the shooterdraggedherdownthehall.Theystoppedinfrontofabathroom.“Openit,”hedemanded,andwhenIzzyhesitatedhisfingersbitdeeperintoherflesh.“Openit!”

Pleasebeempty,shethought.

With a shakinghand, shepushedopen thedoor, and revealed asquattoilet,apristinesink.Noone.

“Comeon,”theshootersaid.Hepulledherfromthebathroomtothe changing room—empty, the recovery room—empty, and theconsultation room, where the sonograms were done. There, anotherwomanwassprawledonthefloor—thesocialworkerattheCenter.Izzydidn’thavetogetanyclosertoknowshewasdead.

Fightingtheurgetothrowup,sheletherselfbepulleddownthe

hall.Theshooterpausedattheonedoortheyhadn’topenedyet.Izzyturnedtheknob,butitwaslocked.Shelookedathim,andhecockedthehammerandshotthedoorknobcleanoffthedoor.Evenwithherhands belatedly covering them, Izzy felt her ears ringing.When shestepped inside, she saw a palewoman cowering in the corner of thelab,hermouthroundedinascream.

Soundcamebackinfitsandstarts.Shecouldhearherselftryingtocalmthewomandown.“I’mIzzy,”shesaid.

“Joy.”Hergazedartedtotheshooter.

Izzytriedtoredirectthewoman’sattention.“Areyouhurt?”

“I just had … I had …” She swallowed. “I was in the recoveryroom.”

“Hewantsustogotothewaitingroom,butIneedhelpcarryingthedoctor,who’sbeenwounded.You feel strongenough tohelpme,Joy?”

Joynodded,andtheybacktracked.Izzywaswellawareofthegunpointedather.“Makeitfast,”theshootersaid.

In the procedure room Joy froze, staring at the dead nurse.Dammit.Izzyhadforgottentowarnher.

“OhmyGod.OhmyGodohmyGodohmy—”She turnedawayfromthebodyandgasped.“Dr.Ward?”

Hewasconsciousnow,butclearlyinpain.“MizJoy,”hemanaged.

“This isnotagoddamnicecreamsocial,” theshooteryelled.Hisanger lit a fuse in Izzy. She scrambled around the room, openingdrawers and grabbing as much gauze and tape as she could andshoving it into her scrubs top, which ballooned out with the itemswhereitwastuckedintothewaistbandofherpants.

Shegottoherkneesandloopedthedoctor’sarmaroundherneck,then caught Joy’s eye to get her assistance. Joy looped the doctor’sotherarmaroundherneck.Togethertheygothimuprightandbegantodraghimdownthehall,hislegleavingatrailofblood.

As theyapproached thewaiting room,Dr.Ward lookedpast thereception desk and saw the body of the clinic owner. “Vonita,” hemoaned,justastheshootergrabbedIzzybyherbraid.TearssprangtohereyesandshelosthergriponDr.Ward,sothatJoyhadtobearthe

bulkofhisweight.Theytumbledtothefloor,thedoctorlandingonhisbad leg.Hismakeshift tourniquetpopped freeof its knot, andbloodbegantorunfreely.

Izzy immediately knelt to fix the tourniquet, but the shooterwouldn’t let her. “You’re not finished,” he said. “I want all of themwhereIcanseethem.”

“Joy,”Izzycriedout,“tiethattubing!”Asshespoke,shecrawledtoBex, the ladywho’dbeenshotnear the receptiondesk.Theyoungwomanshehadorderedtoapplypressuretothewoundwasstillthere,pressingdownontheinjurytoslowtheflowofblood.

Izzylookedupatthegunman.“Ican’tmoveher.”

“I’mnottheonewhocaresifshedies.”

Grittingher teeth, Izzy draggedBex, apologizing for causingherpain. The young woman watched her struggle for a moment. WhenIzzystaredatherindisbelief,shescrambledtohelp.

TheypositionedBexbesidethedoctoronthewaitingroomfloor.“Okay, start againwith the pressure,” Izzy told thewoman. Shewasyoung, but itwas clear that shewaswearing a blondwig, and not aparticularlygoodone.Chemo?Izzywondered,andontheheelsofthatcameawashofempathy.

Sheimmediatelyturnedherattentiontothedoctoragain.Joyhadwrappedthetubingaroundhislegandwasholdingitinplacewithherhand. Izzyrippedoff thebloodypants legofhisscrubsandbegan totwistitintoarope.

“You’re. Not. Finished,” the shooter growled. “Check the rest oftherooms!”

Izzy’shandsstilledasthepistolnudgedherbetweentheshoulderblades.

Liftingherpalmsinsurrender,shesentasilentpleatoJoytokeephervigilover thedoctorandgot toher feetagain.Withsharp,angrystridesshewalkedtothebathroomthatshehadgoneintoearliertobesick.Sheflungthedoorwide.“Empty,”sheannounced.

Theshooterdidn’tcometoverifyherclaim.Hecouldn’t,withoutturninghisbackonhishostages. Insteadhe stoodatadistancewiththegun,bouncinghisaimbetweenIzzyandtheothers.

She yanked open a supply closet, the only other door in thewaitingroom.Ononesidewasapileofboxes,andastackofcleaningsupplies. On the other side hung three long white lab coats and abarricademadeofavacuum,amop,andabucket.Fromwhereshewasstanding,Izzycouldalsoseetwofaces,pinchedandpale,blinkingupather.One,anolderwoman,heldafingertoherlips.

Izzy turned, blocking that side of the closet with her own body.“Empty.Happynow?”shesaid,andsheslammedthedoorsshut.Shefoldedherarms,musteringcourageshedidn’tfeel.“NowcanIgobacktodoingmyjob?”

—

FORAMINUTEWRENWAS sure shewasagoner.When that closetdooropened, she had turned to stone. She stared up at the woman, whoclearly noticed them, but didn’t give away their hiding place. Shestayedutterlyfrozenuntiltheywereplungedintodarknessagain,andthenfeltOlive’sfingersgrippinghers,paperyandpowdery,thewayoldladies’handsalwayswere.Wren’sphonevibratedandshe lifted it inthedarkness.

Stillsafe?

Yes,shetextedbacktoherfather.

Whereru?

Inacloset

Alone?

No, shewrote.WithOlive. She didn’t explainwhoOlive was. Itwasenoughthather fatherrealizedshewasn’tsittingherealoneandterrified.

CanyouseeBex?

No.

Don’t move, her father wrote. Don’t speak. Listen and tell mewhatuhear.

Wren tried, but with the closet doors closed, it was allmuffled.Therewere shots, she wrote after amoment.Aunt Bex fell down. Ithinkitwentintoherchest.

Whichside?

Wrenblinked.Shetriedtothink;wherehadtheredspread?Shemovedherhandoverherownchest,mappingthememory.Right.

Sherealized,asshetypedit,thatherfatherwasfeedingherhope.Therightsideofyourchestdidn’tholdyourheart.Therewasachancethatherauntwasstillfighting.

Peoplewerecrying,Wrentyped.A ladywearingscrubsopenedtheclosetdoorandshesawusbutshemadesurehedidn’t.

Awarningpoppeduponherscreen.Youonlyhave10%batteryleft.WouldyouliketogointoSavemode?

Yes,Wrenthought.Yes,Iverymuchwould.

Dad,shetyped,I’msorry.

Ithadbeenherdecisiontogetbirthcontrol.Herdecisiontokeepthatlittletidbitofinformationfromherfather.Herdecisiontoaskheraunt to bring her here secretly. Shewaited for her father to absolveher,tosaythatitwasallright,thatitwasn’therfault.

Tellmewhatelseishappening,hewrote.

Wrenfeltsomethingsinkinsideher.Whatifshegotoutofhere,andthingswereneverthesamebetweenthetwoofthem?Whatifshehadbrokeneverythingwithonemistake?

Shewasgoing to live, shedecided, if only toprove toher fatherthatshecouldgrowupandstillbehislittlegirl.

Wrenstartedtyping.Thewomanwhosawushadbloodalloverherclothes.

Wasshehurt?

Idon’tthinkso,Wrenwrote.Butotherpeopleare.

Did you hear the shooter say anything? Did he mention anynames?Whenwasthelasttimeyouheardthegungooff?Howmanyinjureddidyouseebeforeyouwentintohiding?

Herfather’squestionsrolledinlikethunderclouds,fastandthick.Wren closed her eyes and pressed the power button to darken thescreen and save some of the limited juice she had left. She thought,instead,ofallthequestionshewasn’taskingher.

Why are you in a women’s health center in the middle of theschoolday?

Whyisyourauntwithyou?

Whydidn’tyoutellme?

Herearliestmemorywaswhenshewasfouryearsold,whenshestill had amother and a normal nuclear family. She was at nurseryschool, and a boy on the playground kissed her smack on the lipsunderneath the jungle gym that looked like a pirate ship andannouncedthathewantedtomakebabieswithher.Wrenhaddrawnbackherfistandpunchedhimrightinthemouth.

Herparentswerecalledtoschool.Hermotherwasmortifiedandkept saying thatWrendidn’t have a violent bone inher body,whichmadeherwonder ifotherpeoplehadviolentbones,and if theyweretucked in among the ribs or pressed down under the footwhen youstampedit.“Wren,”hermothersaid,“whatdidyoudo?”

“IdidwhatDaddytoldmeto,”sheanswered.Herfatherlaughedsohardhecouldn’tstop,andhermothertoldhimtogostandoutside,likehewastheoneintrouble.

Hermotherwantedtopunishher.Herfathertookheroutforthebiggesticecreamsundae,instead.

Dad,shetexted,areyoustillthere?

...

...

...

Always,hewrote,andsheexhaled.

—

THE SHOOTER HAD TAKEN EVERYONE’S cellphones and thrown them intothetrash.Hebarricadedthe frontdoorwiththecouchandseatsandcoffeetables.Breathinghard,heturnedaround,levelingthegunattheothers.“DowhatIsay,”hemuttered,“andnoonewillgethurt.”

“Nooneelse,”Izzycorrectedunderherbreath.

Sheknew thathewaswatchingher;his eyes felt like lasers.ButIzzydidn’tcare.Shehadkeptupherendofthebargain,andtherewerepeople herewhowere hurt. She’d be damned if she sat back and let

themsuffer.

JaninestillhadherhandspressedonBex’schest.Izzybentdown,trying to see howmuch the wound was still bleeding. The woman’swhisperfellintoherear.“Myniece.Closet.”

Izzythoughtofthetwofaces,pinchedandterrified,thathadbeenstaring up at her when she opened those doors at the gunman’sdirective.SheleanedoverfartheronthepretenseoflisteningtoBex’slaboredbreath.“She’sokay,”Izzymurmured.

Bex’seyesflutteredclosed.“NeedtotellHugh.”

“Tellmewhat?”

Bexcoughed,andthencriedoutfromthepainthatmusthaveshotthroughherlungsandribs.Izzytriedtodistracther,becausetherewasdamnlittleelseshecoulddobutkeepthewomancomfortable.“Whatdoyoudo,Bex?”

“Artist,”thewomanwhimpered.“Hurts.”

“Iknow,” Izzy soothed. “The less you canmove, thebetter.”SheglancedatJanine, and silentlydirectedher tomaintainherposition.“I’mgoing to tend to someone else,” Izzy said, “but I promise I’ll beback.”

SheinchedacrossthecarpettoDr.Ward.ThetourniquetthatJoyhadtiedneededtobetighterandmoredurable.

“Vonita,”hesaidsoftly.“She’sgone?”

Izzynodded.“I’msorry.”

“SoamI,”hemurmured.“SoamI.”Helookedoverhisshoulder,asifhecouldseepastthebarrierofthefrontdesk,wherethebodylay.“Thesewomen, theywere all the daughtersVonita never had.Droveherhusbandcrazy,howhardsheworkedatthisplace.Heusedtosaythey’d carry her out of here in a coffin.”His voice broke on the lastword.“Shewouldhateknowingthatheturnedouttoberight.”

Izzyrolledthe fabric fromDr.Ward’spants legaroundhis thighandtieditjustabovethewound.“Holdstill,Doctor,”shesaid.

Heraisedabrow.“Youjustrippedmyscrubsoff.IthinkyoucancallmeLouie,don’tyou?”

IzzyplacedaSharpieshe’dfoundunderthecouchatthecenterof

the knot, then tied the fabric again. She began to twist the Sharpie,whichwound the cotton around, tightening the new tourniquet. Theblood flow trickled, stopped. “There,” she said. “That’smore like it.”Shegrabbedarolloftape,awkwardlytuggingitwithherteethsothatshecouldsecurethetourniquetinplace.Thenshelookedatherwrist.It was just after twelve-thirty. Now, the countdown began: she hadstoppedDr.Ward frombleedingout,butwithoutarterial flow, therewould eventually be ischemic damage to the tissue. If that bindingstayedinplacelongerthantwohours,therecouldbemuscleornerveinjury.Sixhours,andhewouldhavetohavehislegamputated.

Maybebythenthey’dberescued.

Dr.Wardpattedherhandas she finished taping the tourniquet.“Wemakeagoodteam,”hesaid.“Thankyou.”Heliftedhislegontoachairsothatitwouldbeelevatedabovehisheart.

ShelookedatBex,stilllyingonthefloor,deathlypalebutstable.

Now that Izzy didn’t have a medical emergency to occupy herhands,theystartedshaking.Shegrabbedherrightwithherleft.

“Ihaven’tseenyouherebefore,haveI?”Dr.Wardmurmured.

Izzyshookherhead.Shestartedtoanswer,butthenhesitatedastheshooterpassedby,talkingtohimselfunderhisbreath.

When he was on the other side of the room, the doctor spokeagain.“Yougotahusbandoutthereworryingaboutyou?”

Hewasspeakingquietly,creatingabubbleofconversationjustbigenoughforthetwoofthem.“No,”shesaid.“Justaboyfriend.”

“Justaboyfriend?”heteased.

“Maybeafiancé…”

“Maybelikeyoucan’tremember?”Dr.Wardchuckled.“Ormaybelikeyouhaven’tdecidedyet?”

“It’scomplicated.”

“Girl,Igotnothingbuttime.”Dr.Wardgrinned.

“It’s not that easy. We come from really different places,” Izzyexplained.

“PalestineandIsrael?”

“What?No…”

“MarsandVenus?”Dr.Wardasked.“UnionandConfederacy?”

“Parker grew up eating caviar. I grew up eating when we hadenoughmoneyforfood.”Immediately,Izzyflushedbeetred.Shedidn’ttalkaboutherupbringing.Shetried,onadailybasis,toforgetit.

She and Parker had been together for three years. They hardlyeverfought,andwhentheydid,italwayscamedowntothedifferenceintheirbackgrounds.

Therewasthetimetheyhadonlybeendatinga fewweekswhenshehadcomeacrosshimscrollingthroughsocialmediaonhisphone.He’dmurmured,Valencialooksnice.

Letme guess. She’s someone youwent to schoolwith. JealousyhadbristledthroughIzzy.Womenwithnameslikethathadtrustfundsandskiinstructors.

ParkerhadheldouthisphonetoshowherthatitwasthenameofthenewInstagramfilter.

Someone’sjealous,hehadteased.

ItoldyouI’mnotperfect.

Nope,Parkerhadsaid.Butyou’reperfectforme.

Another time, they had justmoved in together and he’d put hisglassonthecoffeetabletheyhadjustboughtatayardsale.Howcouldyounotuseacoaster?she’dsnapped.

It’satwenty-dollartable,hehadsaid,incredulous.

Izzy could not imagine spending thatmuch on an item and nottreatingitlikeitwasprecious.Exactly,she’dsaid.

Allthefighthadgoneoutofhim.

I’manasshole,hehadtoldher,andshenevercaughthimwithoutacoasteragain.

She knew damn well why she had fallen for Parker. She justcouldn’t,forthelifeofher,understandwhyhehadfallenforher.Oneday, Parker would be embarrassed by her in the company of hisfriends,whenshedid something that revealedherupbringing.Orhewould leave her and she’d be broken.Better to be the one to do thebreaking.

Dr. Ward reached for her steady hand. “Well, look at that,” hesaid.“Someone’sforgottentobescared.”

Duringthiswhisperedconversation,whichtheymighthavebeenhavinganywhereandanytime,ratherthaninthemiddleofahostagecrisis,Izzyhadstoppedshaking.“Whatdoyouthinkhe’sgoingtodotous?”shewhispered.

“Idon’tknow,”thedoctorreplied.“ButIdoknowyou’regoingtosurvive it.”Hewinkedather.“Youcan’t leavethatpoorboyofyourshanging.”

Youdon’tknowthehalfofit,Izzythought.

—

TRUTH BE TOLD, JANINE HAD been waiting for this day. She knew Godwouldpunishher;she justhadn’t thought itwouldbewithquitethismuchirony.

She kept her hands pressed to the chest of thewomanwhohadbeenshot. If shepushedhardenough, therewasn’tanyblood. If shepushedhardenough,maybeshecouldshovebackthesecretthathadbeenburiedsofaritfeltlikeafalsememory.

Janine had not hadmany friends. Having a brother with Downsyndrome was time-consuming. It meant she had to be home afterschool when her parents were working, to be a babysitter. It meantexplainingtoeveryonewhyBenhadto tagalong,andsometimesshejustdidn’thavetheenergyorinclination.Anditalsomeantdefendinghimagainststupidcommentspeoplemade—callinghimtheRword,orsayingButhe looksprettynormal, or askingwhyhermother hadn’thadprenataltesting.Itwaseasiertojustnothaveanyoneovertothehouse,toremainalonerinschool.

Whichwaswhy,whenshewassixteenandsomehowgotpairedinbiologywith thequeenbeeof the sophomore class, she expected theworst. Instead, Monica took her under her wing, as if she were acluelesslittlesister,draggingherintothegirls’roomtoteachherhowtodo a cat’s eyewith liquid liner; sharingYouTube videos thatweresupposedtomakeherlaugh.Itwasthefirsttimeshewasinonthejokeinsteadofthebuttof it,whichwaswhywhenMonicainvitedheroutonaFridaynight,shewent.Shetoldhermotherthatshewasstudyingforherbiomidtermwithherlabpartner,whichwasonlypartlyalie.ShemetMonica,whogavehera fakeIDtouse thathadbelongedto

her cousin, who looked like Janine with longer hair if you squintedhard.Theyweregoingtosneakintoafratpartyatthecollege.

Janinehadonlydrunkwineatcommunion,andtonight’sfarewasgrainalcoholpunch.IttastedlikeKool-Aidandtherewasalwaysaboypressing another drink intoher hand.Thenight became a collage ofimagesandmoments:aredSolocup,aheartbeatmadeofmusic,boyswhodancedsoclosethatthehaironthebackofherneckstooduptheway it did before a thunderstorm. Their hands on her shoulders, amassage. Teeth scraping her neck. The realization thatmost people,includingMonica,hadgonehome.Thegreennapofapooltableonherbarethighs.Someoneholdingherdownwhileanothermovedbetweenherlegs,splittingherintwo.Don’ttellmeyoudon’twantthis,hesaid,andwhileshewastryingtofigureoutwhethertheanswerthatwouldgethimoffherwasayesorano,adickwasshovedintohermouth.

Whensheawakened,alone,bruisedandoozing,shepulleddownherdress.Herunderwearwasgone.Thesunstabbedatthehorizonasshe let herself out of the frat house.The lawnwas litteredwithbeercans,andoneofthebroswaspassedoutontheporch.Shewonderedifhehadbeenonher,inher.Atthatthoughtsheleanedoverandthrewupviolently,untilshebelievedtherewasnothingleftinside.

Shewaswrongaboutthat.

Shefoundoutshewaspregnanttheusualway—askippedperiod,tender breasts, exhaustion. But beyond all that, she just knew. Shecouldfeelthem,stillinsideher,dirty.Takingroot.

Nooneknew.Monicahadonly said,Well,when I left youweresurroundedbyguys.Yousure looked likeyouwerehaving fun.Herparentsstillthoughtshehadbeenstudying.Janinewasdeterminedtokeepitthatway.

Wheretheylived,itwaseasy.ShestillhadthefakeID.SheusedittomaketheappointmentataclinicinapartofChicagoshehadneverbeen tobefore.She scheduled itduring theafternoon,when shewassupposedtobehomewatchingBen.Ihavetorunanerrand,shetoldhim,andifyoudon’ttellMom,I’llletyouwatchTVthewholetime.

She stole money from the jar in the kitchen cabinet that herparentsusedforemergencies.Shetookacabthere.Theyaskedatthefrontdeskiftherewasafather,andJaninedidadoubletake,thinkingtheymeantherdad.Thensherealized—the fatherof thebaby.But it

wasn’tababytoher.Itwasn’tahumanbeing.Itwasawoundthathadtobeclosed.

ThedoctorwasanIndianwomanwithperfumethatsmelledlikeagarden.Therewasapinch,and thenpressure,andshepanickedandkickedher footoutof thestirrup.After that,anursecame in tohelphold her down, and that only made her think about Them and shefoughtharder.Finally thedoctor satbackand lookedather.Doyouwantthis,sheaskeddispassionately,ordon’tyou?

Don’ttellmeyoudon’twantthis.

She held it together during the procedure, and in recovery, andafterward,whenshetookanothercabhome.ButwhenshesawBenontheporchwiththeirnext-doorneighbor,shepanicked.

Theneighborpickedupablanket-wrappedbundleontheground.“Galahadwasrunover,”hesaid.“I’mreallysorry.”

Theirterrierwassupposedtostayinthehouseunlesshewasonaleash.“YouweretakingalongtimeandIwenttoseeifyouwerebackandheranoutsidebeforeIcouldstophim,”Bensaid.“Hewon’twakeup.”

Shewrappedherarmsaroundhim.“It’snotyourfault.”

Janinetookthebundlefromherneighbor.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadeverheldanythingdead.Galahad’sweightfeltslight,asifhewereevaporating. That morning she had yelled at him because he waschewingonhersock.Shehadsomanyorphanedsocksbecauseofthatdog, shehad taken towearing them inmismatchedpairs.Evennow,shehadonabluespottedoneandaredonewithtinypenguinsonit.Janine was sick thinking about it, dizzy, the way you felt when youperchedattheedgeofacliff.That’sallthatstoodbetweendeathandlife,asinglemisstep.

Shecarriedthedogtothebackyardandusingoneofhermother’sgardening spades, dug a hole. Ben watched. He asked why she wasputtingGalahad’sfaceintothedirt.

Shedidn’tknowhowtoexplainlifeanddeathtoherbrother.Shedidn’tknowhowtokeepfromthinkingthatthiswasherpunishment,forwhatshehaddone.Hadthebabyinsideherbeenlikethis,aliveonemoment,deadthenext?Itwasthefirsttime—theonlytime—shehadthoughtofitasapersonandnotaproblem.

WhenJaninewasfinished,herhandsblackwithdirt,shesatdowninthebackyardandsobbed.Thatwashowhermotherfoundherwhenshe got home fromwork. Shewas inconsolable, and everyone in herfamilythoughttheyknewwhy.

Itturnedoutthatifyousurgicallyremovedamemory,youmightstop feeling for theedgesof its scar.Youmightevencometobelievethat you hadnever been raped, hadnever been pregnant, hadnevergottenanabortion.ThemoredistancethatgrewbetweenthatdayandJanine’s future, the more she believed that she was different fromotherwomenwhohadfoundthemselveswithanunwantedpregnancy.Shehadbeenthevictim.Shehadwhitewashedthestainwithyearsofpro-lifeactivism.Shedidn’tthinkofherselfasahypocrite.Thatthinginsideherhadnotbeenababy.Itwassomethingthey’dleftbehind.

Janinehadpretendedtothinkthatifshenevertoldasoulwhereshehadbeenthatafternoon,itwouldbelikeithadn’thappened.Butofcourse,Godknew.Andthatwaswhythisshootingwasherfault.

Coming here undercover had been a bad idea. It was as if theCenterwerePandora’sbox.She’dopened thedoor,andhad releasedalltheevilintotheworld.

—

NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF HUGH’S JOB as a hostage negotiator involvedbeingagoodlistener,butthishadn’talwaysbeenaskillhepossessed.WhenheandAnnabellebrokeup,shehadaccusedhimofconstantlyinterrupting her and not taking her feelings into account. “That’sridiculous,”hehadblustered, cuttingheroffmidsentence.Annabellehadheldupherhands,as if tosay,I toldyouso.Thespacebetweenthemhadfilledwithshock,withHugh’sbitterrealizationthatshewasright. “Maybe if you’d let me finish a thought,” Anna said into thesilence,“Iwouldn’thavehadtofindsomeoneelsewhodid.”

HughhadnotbecomeanegotiatoruntilafterAnnabellelefthim.Buthewasboundanddeterminednottomakethesamemistakeinhisprofessionallifethathehadinhisprivateone.Hehadbeentrainedtostay calm, evenwhenhis adrenalinewaspumping.Heknew to keephisvoiceeven,tostayengagedwithwhatapersonwassaying,attunedtoeverydetail.

He knew, too, to acknowledge when someone else spoke. Toaccept.Tosay,all right,yes,okay.Buthedidnot say I understand,

because he understood nothing, particularly what brought anyparticularpersontoanyparticularcliff.

It had always been easier for Hugh to be measured anddispassionate during a hostage standoff than it had been withAnnabelle. He supposed it was because at work, he had nothingpersonalatstake.

Untilnow.

“McElroy.”Heturnedatthesoundofthechief’svoice.“Whattheholyfuckisgoingon?”

Chief Monroe was still dressed in his coat and tie from hisluncheon. “Hostage situation,” Hugh said. “I already called in theSWATteam,andwehaveanameandaddress.GeorgeGoddard.”

“Anypriors?”

“No.Itseemstobeapersonalgrudge,basedoninformationfromaneyewitness.”

Hedidnotsaythewordsthatwereonthetipofhistongue:ThetwopeopleIlovemostintheworldareinthere.Idon’ttrustanyonebutme to get them out. Theminute he admitted that, he would bebootedoffthiscase.But luckily,partofHugh’strainingwasknowinghowtolieconvincingly.

The chief looked from the cordoned-off clinic to the line ofpolicemen securing the perimeter. “You tell me what you need,” hesaid,cedingauthoritytoHugh.

“I’mgood, fornow,”Hugh said, andhe lifted amegaphone thathadcomefromoneofthecruisers.

Hewasnot a fanof throwphones—heavyGator cases thatweretypicallydeliveredtothefrontdoorviaanarmoredvehicle.Thecopswouldretreatwhilethegunmantookintheboxandliftedthereceiver.Instead,hejustneededtheshootertoknowthathewasgoingtobetheonecallinghim.

“Hello,”heboomed.“ThisisDetectiveLieutenantHughMcElroyof the Jackson Police. I’m going to call the landline in there in oneminute.” He held up his cellphone, in case anyone was watchingthroughthemirroredwindows.

In the silence that followed his words, Hugh could hear the

symphony of June bugs and the throaty contralto of cars on thehighway in the distance. He imagined Wren, hidden in a closet,straining tohearhisvoice.Hewasaddressing theshooter,but inhisheart,hewasspeakingdirectlytohisdaughter.

“I just want to talk,” Hugh said, and then he put down themegaphone,anddialed.

—

GEORGEHADALWAYSBELIEVEDHIMSELF tobeanhonorableman—agoodChristian, a good father. But what about when being good got younowhere?Whenyouwerestillliedto,shiton,whennobodylistenedtoyou?

They’dlisten,now.

As if he’d willed it, a tinny, amplified voice seeped through thewallsof theclinic.This isDetectiveLieutenantHughMcElroyof theJacksonPolice.

Hefeltit:theelectrifiedoptimismthatsizzledthroughthegroup.Helphadarrived.Theywerenotalone.

George had known, on some subconscious level, that it wouldcometothis:someonewouldcometosavethesepeople.Itwasuptohimtosavehimself.

Once,asakid,Georgehadfoundabloodytrailinthewoodsandtracedittoanillegaltrap,whereacoyotehadcheweditsownlegofftoescape.Formonthsafterthathehadwokenupsweatinginthemiddleofthenight,hauntedbythatseveredpaw.He’dwonderedifthecoyotehadlived.Ifitwasworthmakingasacrificethatgreatforafreshstart.

He didn’t blame Lil. Shewas a child, for God’s sake. She didn’tknowwhat shewasdoing.Hecouldeasily lay fault at the feetof thepeopleinthisclinicwhohaddoneittoher.

Thepistolfeltlikeanextensionofhisarm,likehisownlimb.Hecouldn’t chew it off and hope to survive. Thiswas a trap of his ownmaking.

On the receptiondesk,beneath theglitterof shatteredglass, thephonebegantoring.

—

IT WAS THE MODERN-DAY EQUIVALENT of the trolley problem, that old

ethicsconundrum.There’satrolleywhosebrakeshavefailedbarrelingdownatrack.Aheadarefivepeoplewhoareunabletomove,andthetrolley is going to hit them. You have the ability to pull a lever andswing the trolley to an alternate track. However, on that track is asinglepersonwho is similarlyunable tomove.Doyou let the trolleystayoncourseandkillfivepeople?Ordoyoupulltheleverandkillonepersonwhowouldotherwisehavebeensafe?

Until today, Hugh would have said that the lesser of two evilswould be the loss of a single life, rather than five lives. But thingschangedwhenyouhadyourhandonthatleverandthedoomedpersononthealternatetrackwassomeoneyouloved.

Itwasas ifBexwasonone trackandWrenonanother.What iftrying to engage the shooter via negotiation took somuch time thatBex, injured, didn’t survive? What if he attempted to get Bex helpquickly,disarmingthesituationviaforce,andwoundupputtingWreninthelineoffire?

HughdialedthenumberoftheCenterandlistenedtoitring,andring,andring.Heknew,thankstoWren,thatthelackofresponsewasnotbecauseeveryoneinsidehadbeenkilled,includingthegunman.Sohehungup,andwaitedamomentbeforedialingagain.

WhenWrenwasborn,Hughhadbeensuretherewassomethingwrongwithhim.Hejustcouldn’tgetexcitedaboutadrooling,poopingbundleofflesh.Evenwhenpeoplecameovertoexclaimatherbigblueeyes or her thick head of hair, he smiled and nodded and secretlythoughtshelookedlikeatinyalien.Ofcourseheadoredher.Hewouldhavelaiddownhislifeforher.Heunderstoodthedutythatcamewithbeingaparent,butnotthevisceralpullhe’dheardothersdescribe.

Justyouwait,Bexhadtoldhim,andlikealways,shewasright.

ThatmiraclehadhappenedwhenWrenwasthreeandhernurseryschoolteachercasuallymentionedhowcuteitwasthatsheandalittleboynamedSaheedplayedhousetogether.Who’sSaheed?hehadaskedthatday,drivingherhome.Oh,Wrenhadsaid.Myboyfriend.

ThefirsttimehehadseenWrenontheplayground,holdinghandswithSaheed,Hughhadveryclearly felt theworldshift.Thatwas themoment he realized thatWren did not belong to him. In fact,Hughbelongedtoher.

Oneday,shewouldnotneedhimtohelpherdecideifsheshould

wear leggings with candy corn on them, or penguins. One day, shewouldrememberall thewordsto“BohemianRhapsody”withouthimfillinginthegapsastheysangalonginthecar.Onedayshewouldn’taskhimtogettheGoldfishcrackersfromashelfshecouldnotreach.Onedayshewouldnotneedhimanymore.

Sometimesyoucan’ttellhowconsumingloveisuntilyoucanseeits absence. Sometimes you can’t recognize lovebecause it’s changedyou, like a chimera, so slowly that you didn’t witness thetransformation.

AsHughwatchedSaheed followingWren likea loyal subject,hethoughtofallthecraphehadpulledwhenhewastryingtogetagirl’sattention,andhevowednevertoletanyguytreatherthewayhehadtreatedgirls inhighschool.Buthealsoknewthathecouldn’tprotecther.Thatshewouldbeheartbrokenoneday,andhewouldhavetoseehercry.

Thatwasfatherhood.Fatherhoodwaswantingtoputhisdaughterinabubblewhereshecouldneverbehurt,whileknowingthathehadhurt someone else’s daughter, once. Fatherhood was plotting thefuture murder of a sweet kid named Saheed because he had thewisdomtoseethatnobodyelseintheworldwasasawesomeasWren.

Now,Hughscrolledthroughforgottenconversationsinhismind.Inanyofthem,hadWrenmentionedaboy?

Wrenhad said shewas herewithBex. But thiswas an abortionclinic.Bexwastoooldtoneedone.Maybehissisterhadcomehereforanotherreason,butwhywouldshehavetakenWrenoutofschool toaccompanyher?

Unless…

Hecouldn’tevenfinishthatsentenceinhismind.

HedecidedthatafterhesavedWren’slife,hewouldfindoutwhotheboywas.Andthenmaybekillhim.

HughdialedthephonenumberoftheCenteragain.Thistime,onthethirdring,awomananswered.NotWren.

Buthehadmadefirstcontact.Now,hethought.Go.

“This is Lieutenant McElroy with the Jackson Police. Am I onspeakerphone?”

“No.”

“WhoamIspeakingwith?”

“Um,mynameisIzzy…”

“Izzy,”Hughsaid,“I’mheretohelpyou.CanItalktothepersonwhomightbeabletoresolvethissituation?”

Heheardhersaytosomeone:“It’sthepoliceandtheywantyou.”

Andthen:“Yeah?”

Thevoiceof the shooter rumbled likea stickdrawnacross fenceposts.JustthatonesyllableopenedacaveHughcouldpeerinto.Thewordwasdeep,boiling,wary.Butitwasalsooneword,ratherthanabarrageofthem.Whichmeanthewaslistening.

“This is Detective Hugh McElroy of the Jackson PoliceDepartment.I’mwiththehostagenegotiationunit.I’mheretotalktoyouandensurethesafetyofyouandeveryoneelseinthebuilding.”

“Ihavenothingtotalkabout,”theshootersaid.“Thesepeoplearemurderers.”

“Okay,”Hughreplied,nojudgment.Anacknowledgment.“What’syourname,sir?”heasked,althoughhealreadyknew.“Whatwouldyouliketobecalled?”

“George.”

Inthebackground,Hughcouldhearanagonizedcry.PleaseletitnotbeBex,hethought.“Areyouhurt,George?”

“I’mfine.”

“Isanyoneelsehurt?Doessomeoneneedadoctor?Itsoundsliketheremightbesomepeopleinpain.”

“Theydon’tdeservehelp.”

Hugh felt the eyes of Chief Monroe and at least a dozen otherofficers on him. He turned his back. The relationship he needed tobuildwithGeorgeGoddardwasbetweenthetwoofthem,andnooneelse. “Whatever happened in there, George, you’re not to blame. Iknow that there are other people at fault here.Whatever happened,happened. That’s over and done. But you and I can work together,now, tomake sure no one else gets hurt.We can resolve this… andhelpyou…atthesametime.”

Hughwaited for a response, but there wasn’t one.Well. It beatFuckyou.AslongasGeorgewasstillontheline,hehadachance.

“Here’s my phone number, in case we get disconnected,” Hughsaid.Herattledoffthedigits.“I’mtheoneinchargeouthere.”

“WhyshouldItrustyou?”Georgeasked.

“Well,”Hughsaid,havingknown thisquestionwouldcome, “wehaven’t stormedthebuilding,havewe?Mygun is still inmyholster,George.Iwanttoworkwithyou.Iwantustobothgetwhatwewant.”

“Youcan’tgivemewhatIwant,”Georgeanswered.

“Tryme.”

“Really.”

Hugh could hear the sarcasm in George’s voice. “Really,” heconfirmed.

“Thenbringmygrandchildbacktolife,”Georgesaid,andhehungupthephone.

I

Elevena.m.

T WASN’T AS IF THE WAITING ROOM OF THE CENTER screamedWe doabortionshere.ItremindedWrenalittleofherdentist’soffice:bad

art on thewalls,magazines from the Stone Age, a television playingsomedumbtalkshow.Therewasacouchandasmatteringofchairs,noneofwhichmatched.Thecoffeetablehaddeepgroovesinit,asifithadcomefromaprevious,carelesshome.

Then again, not everyone was here to have an abortion. Shewasn’t.Herauntwasn’t.Theotherwomaninthewaitingroomclearlywasn’teither:anolderwomanwithsleeksilverhairandred-rimmedeyes.

Wrenwondered if thatwomanwasmaking the assumption thatshe was pregnant, that she had gotten herself “in trouble.” She washerefortheexactoppositereason.

Couldpeopletellthatshewasavirgin?Didhookingupwithaguychange you, somehow, from the inside out? Would she comedownstairs the morning after It happened and would her fatherinstantlyknowbylookingather?

Thethoughtembarrassedher.What ifherdadcouldtell,andheaskedheraboutit?Couldyoupassmethesalt,andwhothehelldidyousleepwith?

Itwasn’treallythatshewasafraidhe’dkillRyan.(Hemightwantto,buthewasanofficerofthelaw,throughandthrough.)Itwasthatfor so long ithad justbeen the twoof them.Even though shedidn’tthink thingswould change—anddidn’twant things to change—it feltliketherewouldalwaysbesomeoneelsebetweenthemnow.

The lady at the front deskwhohad checkedher inwas chattingwithapink-hairedgirlwhohadjustcomeintotheCenter.“SorryI’mlate,Vonita,”thegirlsaid.

“Thank the Lord you’re here. I don’t have a single escort outthere.”

“WhathappenedtoSisterDonna?”

“Shedidn’tshow,”Vonitasaid.“MaybetheVaticanfinallygothertoquit.”

Aunt Bex nudged Wren with her shoulder and raised hereyebrows.Wrensmirked,anentireconversationwithoutwords.Ithadalwaysbeenlikethatbetweenthem.“Anun?”Bexwhispered.

“And you thought you were the least likely person to be here,”Wren replied. “How much school do you think I’m going to miss?Anotherwholeperiod?”

“Aren’t you here to keep that very thing from happening?” Bexsmiled.“Idon’tknowwhatyou’recomplainingabout.Personally,Iamrivetedbythereadingmaterial.”

On the coffee table beside themwas a stack of pamphlets: “TheGynecologicalVisitandExam—WhattoExpect.”

“ForParentsandMalePartnersandFriends:AfterHerAbortion.”

“WhatIsHPV?”

Therewas also a Sharpiemarker.Wren hiked her knee up and,with the marker, began to drawn stars on the sole of her Conversesneaker. One star, two. A constellation—Virgo. Just for the sheersarcasm.

Sheknewthatherauntwasn’tascalmasshewasmakingherselfout to be. Aunt Bex had told Wren repeatedly that she didn’t feelcomfortable coming inside, and would drop her off and wait in theparking lot.Until they’dgottenhere, that is,andhadseentherowofprotesters.ThenAuntBexhadsaid therewasnoway inhellshewassendinghergirlinsolo.

LastweekinAuntBex’sstudioshehadheardsomethingawesomeon NPR: for the first time ever scientists had watched two neutronstars collide over a hundredmillion light-years away. Itwas called akilonova,anditwassuchanenormouscrashthatgravitationalwaveswerecreated,andlightwasreleased.Thedudebeinginterviewedsaidthat it tooka collisionof forces thatgiant to create theparticles thatmadeupgoldandplatinum.Wrenthoughtthatwassomethingherdadwould love: toknow that themostpreciousmaterials came from theclashesoftitans.

Shehadtoremembertotellhimthat.Sosheinkedatinystaronthe crescent of skin between her left thumb and index finger. Atdinner, he’d see it and say, You’re probably going to die of inkpoisoning,youknow,whichwouldremindWrentotellhimaboutthekilonova.She’dconvenientlyomitthepartaboutwhereshewaswhenshe’ddrawnitonherself.

That’s what you did for people you loved, right? You protectedthemfromwhattheydidn’twanttoknow.

—

AFTER OLIVE’S APPOINTMENT, she had walked into the waiting room.Staggered, really. She didn’t know how she had gotten from theexamination room to here. One minute she had been sitting withHarriet, the nurse practitioner she’d been seeing for years for hercheckups,andtryingtoabsorbwhatshehadbeentold.Thenjustlikethat, her brain had hit its overload capacity. Somehow she had saidgoodbye, stood up, walked down the hall, and stood in front of thereceptiondesk,herfeaturesblank.

Vonita,thelovelywomanwhorantheCenter,hadcomefromherdeskandwrappedhermassivearmstightaroundOlive.“MissOlive,”shesaid.“Howyouholdingup?”

Howcouldsheanswerthat?

Vonitasteeredhertowardaseatinthewaitingroom,nearayounggirlwhowastappingherfootanxiously.“Youdon’thavetoleaveyet,”Vonitasaid.“Youjustsithere,getyourbearings.”

Olivenodded.Itwasn’therbearingsthatneededreadjusting.Herbrain,aboutwhichsheknewmorethanthevastmajorityofpeopleonthisplanet,wasjustfine.Itwastherestofherbodythatfeltforeigntoher.

Shehadbeenbetrayedbyitbefore,butinamuchdifferentway.Ithadbeentenyearsago,whenshewasstill livingwithawomanwho,likeatide,waswearingherawayattheedges.Shepretendedshewashappy,butwhat she reallymeantwas that shewas settled.That thiswas easier thanwondering, again, if therewould ever be anyone forher.

Thenshehadgonetoafacultymixerattheuniversitytocelebratethe start of the new year. Her partner didn’t come—she hated these

things,wherenooneseemedtoasktherightquestionsaboutherandher career designing, as she called them, workable kitchens (butweren’t they all?). SoOlivehadattendedalone,planning to stay justlong enough to be seen by the head of the department, and then gohomeand indulge inaglassofwineormaybeabottle.But thenshenoticed a woman at the bar with long hair, so long that it wasunfashionable, like a seventies flashback. Like Lady Godiva, Olivethought,asshewatchedthewomanthrowbackthreeshotsofbourbonandaskthebartenderforafourth.

Youokay?Oliveaskedher.

Yes.Ontheotherhand,Pegreplied,thedeanoftheengineeringschoolisamisogynisticdick.

Olive didn’t answer. She,who had never cheated and had neverwantedto,waswatchingPeg’slipsformthewords,mesmerized.

Ohfuck,Pegsaid.You’rehiswife,aren’tyou?

Um,nope.Notevenclose.Shemovedclosedandrestedherelbowon the bar.Did you know that drinking doesn’t actually make youforget anything? When you’re blackout drunk, the brain justtemporarilylosesitsabilitytomakememories.

Doesthatlineeverwork?Pegasked.

Don’tknow.I’mroadtestingit.

Peg laughed. So. If I keep up this pace, I might not remembermeetingyou?

That’saboutright.

She pushed away that last shot glass, and held out her hand tointroduceherself.

Now, Olive buried her face in her hands. Oh, Jesus. Peg. Howwouldshetellher?

Thethoughtchased itselfaroundandaround inhermind, likeasquirrelintheeaves.Olivecouldfeelpanicclosinginonher.Shetookadeepbreathandclosedhereyesandtriedtoremindherselfthatwhatshe was feeling was perfectly normal. The brain could only hold somuch;ittookroughlyninetyminutestoclearitsproverbialcache.

On the heels of that came another tidbit of knowledge, one shehadoftenquotedwhenshehandedbackthefirstmultiple-choiceexam

togroansofdisappointment.Studieshaveshownthatwhenpresentedwithalist,thedefaultofthebrainistopickwhateverisfirst.

Thesameholdstrueforvoting,andballots.

Butsometimestherearenochoices,Oliverealized.

Whatdoesthebraindowhenyou’verunoutofoptions?

It wasn’t easy to vomit quietly, but the bathroom that Izzy hadduckedintowaslocatedrightoffthewaitingroom.Whenshefinished,shewipedher facewith toiletpaperandrinsedhermouthout.Thenshe stood there, taking amoment. The bathroomwas decorated liketherestofthebuilding—asifthearthadbeenpickedupfromgaragesales orworse, from the Free boxes of items that didn’t sell. On thewall was a photograph of what looked like the French Riviera, atechnicallyweakoilpaintingofasadclown,andadetailed,biologicallycorrectpen-and-inkillustrationofashrimp.

AllthreeofthemmadeherthinkofParker.

Lastweekend,hisparentshadcometovisitandhadtakenthemouttoamealthatcosthalfofwhatshemadeinaweek.Itwasoneofthose steak and seafoodhouseswhere the foodwas airlifted in fromthe North Sea or a ranch in New Zealand, where you could keep aprivatewinecellarwithyourownspecialvintage.Parker’s fatherhadorderedaseafoodtowerforthetablethatlookedlikeaweddingcake:tiersofoystersandmussels,ribbonsofsmokedmackerelandbluefishdip,buttonsofsweetbabyscallops,crownedbyawholelobster.Itwasdazzling,excessive,andcompletelyoutofIzzy’spurview.

Parker’smother talked about thework shedidwith thehospitalauxiliary, and Parker’s father asked her all sorts of questions, aboutwhether she always wanted to be a nurse and where she went toschool. They talked about their recent trip toParis and asked Izzy ifshehadeverbeenthere,andwhenIzzysaidno,theysaidtheyhopedshe and Parker could come along next time. Clearly Parker had toldthemthatshewasimportanttohim.

ShewatchedParkerdribbledownoystersanduseafishknifeandnever have to stress about which plate was for the bread andwhichdrinkingglassbelongedtohim,whenIzzystillhadtostickherhandsunder the tableand forma lowercasebanddwithher leftand righthandstoremindherself.Thethingsthatwereinstinctualtohimwereforeigntoher,andviceversa.ShedoubtedthatParkerhadeverhadto

gaugeifmoldybreadcouldstillbeconsumedwithoutmakinghimsick.Shewascertainhehadneverfishedahalf-finishedsandwichfromthetrash to eat, or gone into the laundromat to feel in themachines forquartersothersleftbehind.

Shecouldtellhesensedherunease,becauseeverynowandthenhewouldreachforherhandandsqueezeitunderneaththetablecloth.Heputasmallcollectionofseafoodonherplate,soshewouldn’thavetoworryaboutwhetheritwascompletelygauchetopickupamusselshellwithherfingers.

There was no denying that he calmed her. When his thumbrubbed over her knuckles, absentmindedly, she could breathe moreeasily.Shelethimcoaxherintotheconversationasifitwereafrigidpool.

Shegotsocomfortablethatforamoment,sheforgotwhoshehadbeen.Parker’sfathertoldastupiddadjoke,justliketheonesherownfatherusedtotell:Whatdoyoucall itwhenyoufeeddynamite toasteer? Abominable. Get it? Say it slowly… Parker’smother slappedhimlightlyontheshoulderandrolledhereyes.ForGod’ssake,Tom,you’ll scare her off. It felt so normal, so similar to her own parents’behavior, that she made the mistake of thinking she and Parkeractuallydidhavecommonground.

Laughing,sheliftedashrimpfromherplateandtookabite.

It crunched, which was weird, but then lots of food rich peopleliked was weird: caviar, pâté, raw beef. It wasn’t until she noticedParker’s parents staring at her that she realized her mistake. She’dneverhadashrimpinherlife—howwasshesupposedtoknowtopeeltheshell?

“Excuseme,”shemuttered,andshefledtotheladies’room.

Shehid there, thinkingabout tellingParkerabout thepregnancytestshehadtaken.Ifheknewshewaspregnant,hewouldneverlethergo.Shewasdoingwhatwasbestforhim.EvenifhethoughtIzzywaswhat he wanted right now, it was only a matter of time before hedecided he’d rather be with someone from the same background ashim.Someonewho’deatenshrimpbefore,forGod’ssake.

“Iz?”ItwasParker’svoice.

“You’reintheladies’room,”shesaid.

“AmI?Damn.”Hepaused.“Yougonnacomeout?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

Awomanwalkedintothebathroomandsqueaked.“Sorry,canyougiveusaminute?”Parkerasked.Izzyheardthedooropen,thebuzzofthe restaurant before it got quiet again. “You know what? I fuckinghateshrimp.It’slikeeatingsomethingprehistoric,”hesaid.“Thepointis,Idon’tcare.”

“Ido.”Thatwasit,inanutshell.“Parker,gobacktoyourparents.There’snothingyoucansaythat’sgoingtomakethisanybetter.”

“Nothing?”Parkerreplied.

Sheheardshufflingandshifting,and thenParker’shandslippedunder the stall door, his fist opening like a blossom to reveal adiamondring.“Izzy,”hesaid,“willyoumarryme?”

—

ONLYONEOTHERWOMANHADbeen in therecoveryroomwhenJoywasbrought in.SheworeanOleMisssweatshirtandpoolshoes,andshewascrying.“Youhaveaseatinthatchair,honey,”Harrietsaid,flickingaglanceattheotherpatient.ShehandedJoyajuiceboxandapacketofFigNewtons.“Yougotyourazithromycin?”Joynodded.“Good.Youtakethatasdirected.YoucanalsotakeMotrinorAdvilintwohours,butnoaspirin,okay?Itthinstheblood.Andhere’saprescriptionforSprintec,that’sthebirthcontrolyoupicked,right?”

Joy nodded absently. She couldn’t stop staring at the otherwoman,whowas sobbing sohard thatJoy felt rude for intrudingonsomeone’svisiblegrief.WhatdiditsayaboutJoy,whowasn’tcrying?Wasthistheproofthatshehadbeenlookingfor,thatshewouldhavebeenalousymother?

“Willyouexcusemeasecond?”Harrietsaid,andshewentovertothewoman’schairandputahandonhershoulder.“Areyouallright?Areyouinpain?”

Thewomanshookherhead,pastspeech.

“Areyousadthatyouhadtomakethisdecision?”

Whowasn’t?Joythought.Whathellishtributaryofevolutionhadmade reproduction—and all the shit that camewith it—thewoman’sjob?Shethoughtaboutallthewomenwhohadsatintheverychairshewasin,andthestoriesthathadbroughtthemhere,andhow,foronebriefchapter,theyallintersected.Asisterhoodofdesperation.

Thewoman took aKleenex from a box thatHarriet offered her.“Sometimes we have tomake choices whenwe don’t like any of theoptions,”thenursesaid.Shedrewthewomanintoanembrace.“You’vebeenherelongenough.Icangetyourdriverifyou’rereadytogo.”

A fewminutes later thewomanwas signedout.Aboy (he reallywasnomorethanthat)stoodawkwardlybesideherasshegotupandstartedtowalkdownthehall.Heputhishandonhershoulder,butsheshrugged it off, and Joy watched them until she couldn’t see themanymore,movingintandemwithsixfixedinchesofdistancebetweenthem.

Joyputinherearbudsandfilledherheadwithmusic.Hadanyoneasked,shewouldhavesaidshewas listening toBeyoncéorLanaDelRey, but the truth was she was listening to music from The LittleMermaid.Atoneofherfosterhomes,shehadbeengiventhatCDasabirthdaygiftandhadmemorizedeverylastwordofit.Whenthingsgotreallybad, sheused toput thepillowoverherheadandwhisper thelyrics.

Wouldn’tyouthinkI’magirl,agirlwhohaseverything?

“MizJoy?” thenurse said. “Let’s get somevitals.”She cameandstoodbesideJoy’soversizearmchairintherecoveryroom.

Joy letHarrietstickthethermometer intohermouthandVelcrothe cuff aroundher arm. Shewatched the rednumbers blink on themachine,proof thatherbody,batteredas itwas,wasstill functional.“One-tenoverseventy-five,andninety-eightpointsix,”thenursesaid.“Normal.”

Normal.

Nothingwasnormal.

Thewholeworldhadchanged.

Shehadhadtwohearts,andnowshedidnot.

Shehadbeenamother,andnowshewasnot.

—

GEORGESAT INHISTRUCK,hishandsfistedonthesteeringwheel,goingnowhere.Theignitionwasoff,andhehadtwochoices.Hecouldstarttheengineagainanddrivebackhomeandpretendhe’dnevercome.Orhecouldfinishwhathe’dstarted.

He was breathing heavily, like he’d run here, instead of drivinghundredsofmilestodistancehimselffromatruthhecouldn’tabsorb.

HethoughtabouthowheandLilhadoncebeenpartofaThirtyDaysforLifevigilwiththechurch:wherethecongregationtookshiftsroundtheclockhuddledinaprayercircleinfrontofthestatecapitol.They had brought blankets and lawn chairs and thermoses of hotchocolateandhadheldhandsandaskedJesustohelplawmakersseetherightpath.Lilhadbeenachild—maybeeightornine—andsheandsomeotherkids in thecongregationhadrunaroundwhile theadultsprayed.Hecouldrememberwatchingthemspellouttheirnameswithsparklersinthedark,andthinkingthiswaswhatthemovementforlifewasallabout.

HowcouldLilhavegottenanabortion?

Shehadtohavebeenpressured.Someoneheremusthavetoldherthis was the right thing, the only thing, to do. She couldn’t havepossibly believed that hewouldn’t have helped her, raised the child,doneanythingshewanted.

Inthebackofhismindwasathoughtlikeaworminthecoreofanapple:whatifthiswaswhatshewanted?

Georgedidn’tbelieveit;hecouldn’t.Shewasagoodgirl,becausehehadbeenagoodfather.

If the firsthalfof thatstatementwasn’t true,didn’t itnegate thesecondhalf?

Lil had accepted JesusChrist as her Lord and Savior. She knewthat life began at conception. She couldprobably rattle off fiveBibleverses proving it. She was kind, generous, beautiful, smart, andeveryonefellinlovewithherwhentheymether.Lilwas,quitesimply,theoneinstanceofperfectioninGeorge’slife.

Herealized,ofcourse,thateveryonewasasinner.Butiftherewasanysplinterofevilinhisdaughter,heknewwhereithadcomefrom.

Him.

George,whohad spentnearly twodecades trying to scrub cleanthestainsfromhissoulbygivinghimself tothechurch.George,whohad been told forgivenesswas divine; thatGod loved himnomatterwhat.Whatifallthathadbeenalie?

Georgeshookhisheadclear.Itwasthissimple:somethingterriblehadhappened;someonewastoblameforit.ThiswasatestfromGod.LiketheoneJobfaced.AndAbraham.Hewasbeingaskedtoprovehisdevotion tohis faith, and tohis daughter, andhe knew exactlywhatwasexpectedofhim.

Heslippedonhiscoatandzippedituphalfway.Thenhetookthepistoloutoftheglovecompartmentandtuckedit intohiswaistband,concealing it beneath the fleece. His pockets were already full ofammunition.

He started sweating almost immediately, but then again, it waseasily eighty degrees outside. He began moving toward the hazard-orangebuilding.Itwasgarish,ascaronthecityscape.Georgeduckedhishead,pulledhiscollarup.

TherewasafencearoundtheCenter,andonthatperimeterwasaclusterofprotesters.Theyheldupsigns.Therewasawomansittingina folding chair, knitting; and a big man holding a sandwich in onehand and a baby doll in another. George thought about Lil. Hewonderedifhewaswalkingthesamepathshehad.

ABlackwomanwasleavingtheclinic.Herhusbandorboyfriendhadhisarmaroundher.As theypassedtheprotesters,he foldedhermoreprotectivelyintotheshellofhisbody.Hecrossedpathswiththecouple,andkeptwalking.Thebigmaneatingthesandwichcalledouttohim.“Brother,”hesaid,“saveyourbaby!”

GeorgecontinuedtothefrontdooroftheCenter,thinking,Iwill.

—

OUTOFSHEERBOREDOM,Wrenwaseavesdropping.

“Dr.Ward’sbeenat itsincenine-thirty,”Vonitawassaying.“Wehada fifteen-weekcome in forCytotec thismorningandshe’s in thebacknow.”

“AllthatwhileIwassittinghomeeatingbonbons?”Thegirlwith

pinkhairlaughed.

“Bonbons,” Vonita sighed. “I wish.” She took a sip from hertumbler.

“What’sinthere?”

“I hope it’s the ground-up bones of supermodels,” Vonita saidsourly.“Thiscrapistheworkofthedevil.”

“Whydoyouevendrinkthatgarbage?”

Vonitagesturedtohergenerouscurves.“Becauseofmytorridloveaffairwithfood.”

AuntBexstoodup.“IthinkI’mgrowingroots,”shesaid,startingto walk in small circles. “How long can it take to give someone aprescription?”Wrenwatchedherliftherarmsoverherhead,bendatthewaist,anddoitoveragain.

OhmyGod.Herauntwasdoingold-personyogainpublic.

Abuzzerhummedon the receptiondesk,andVonitaglancedupover her reading glasses. “Now who does this one belong to?” shemused.

Wrencranedherneck.TheglasswindowinthedooroftheCenterwasspeciallymade,sothattheycouldseeoutbutwhoeverwasontheoutside couldnot see in. She glimpsed amiddle-agedman squintingintothemirroredsurface.

Sheheardaclick,thebuzzofalockbeingreleased,likeWrenhadseeninmoviesaboutNewYorkapartments.“CanIhelpyou?”Vonitasaid.

Aboutayearago,WrenandherfatherhadbeendrivingadesertedroadnearChunky,Mississippi,whensuddenlyallthehairstooduponthe back of her neck. The next minute, a doe had bolted from thewoodsandslammed into thecar.Theyhadbeenhithardenoughfortheairbagstodeployandforthewindshieldtoshatter.Itwastheonetrulyprescientmomentofherlife.

Untilnow.

Wrenfeltashiverofelectricity,thebrushofaninvisibleicyfinger.“Whatdidyoudotomybaby?”themansaid,andthentheairaroundhercrackedintopieces.

She fell to the floor, coveringherears. Itwasas ifherbodyhadreactedoninstinct,whileherbrainwasstillstrugglingtocatchup.Shecouldn’tseeVonitaanymore,buttherewasapoolofbloodspreadingwherethereceptiondeskmetthefloor.

Wrentriedtowillherself tomove,butshewasfrozenin ice,shewastrappedintar.

“Wren,”AuntBexcried,reachingoutherhand.

Topullherup?Todragheroutthedoor?Toembraceher?

Wrendidn’t know.Because thenher aunt’s eyeswentwide, andshe was struck with a bullet. She tumbled to the floor as Wrenscrambledcloser,screaming,herhandsshakingas theyhoveredoverthebrightbloodonheraunt’sblouse.

Aunt Bex’s eyes were wide. Her mouth was open, but Wrencouldn’thearanysoundcomingout.

Shereadheraunt’slips.Wren.Wren.Wren.

Thensherealizedwhatherauntwasactuallysaying.

Run.

—

THEOTHERCLINICHADBEENnothinglikethisone,Janinethought.Ithadbeen in a different state, in a different life, in a part of town full ofdrunks and Vietnam vets fighting PTSD. There had been someonesmoking a bowl in the alley next to the building, and the lobby hadsmelled like Chinese food. But none of the differences could makeJanine shake the fact that shehadwillingly—once again—entered anabortionfactory.

Janinesatontheultrasoundtable,herphonetuckedinapocketofherdress,whereitwastapingtheentireconversationbetweenherandthesocialworker.

HernamewasGraciela,andshehadthemostbeautifulblackhairJaninehadeverseen.Itreachedherwaist.Bycontrast,thecheapwigthatAllenhadgivenher forcamouflagewas itchyandbrassy.Janinescratched her temple. “Still … you think I should get an abortion,right?”

The social worker smiled a little. “I can’t answer that for you.You’llknowinyourgutwhattodo.”

“ButIdon’t.”

“Well,”Gracielasuggested,“you’reearly,right?Onlysevenweeks?Takeawalk.Gooutside.Clearyourmind.Sleeponit.Sleeponitagainif you have to.Write downwhat you’re feeling to sort through youremotions.Scream intoyourpillow.Cry.Let it out.Talk to friendsorfamily.Ultimately,thedecisionisallyours,Fiona.”

Fiona?Janinefrowned,andthenrememberedthatwasthenameonthefakeIDshehadusedatthereceptiondesk.

Graciela reached for her hand and squeezed. She was being sokind that it made Janine feel sick inside. Why wasn’t she sayingsomethingincriminating?

Whyhadn’ttherebeensomeonelikeGracielawhenshehad…

“It’snotaboutmakingtherightchoice,”Gracielasaid.“It’saboutmakingtherightchoiceforyou.”

“But I’m really scared,” Janine said. She needed evidence. Sheneededtocollectproofthattheycoercedpeopleintokillingbabies.

“Every womanwho’s ever been in your shoes has been scared,”Gracielaassuredher.“You’renotalone.”

“My family would be so disappointed in me.” Janine felt tearsburn inhereyes.Notbecause shewas sucha stellaractress, though.Becauseitwasthetruth.

“It’sgoingtobeokay,”Gracielapromised.“Iknowitdoesn’t feelthatwayrightnow,butIpromiseyou—nomatterwhatyourdecisionis, it’s going to be the right one.” She drew back, holding Janine atarm’slength,andgesturedinthedirectionoftheultrasoundmachine.“Wedon’thavetodothistoday.”

Janinepaused, tryingto figureoutwhat todonext.Shecouldn’thave the ultrasoundwithout revealing that shewasn’t pregnant. Butshedidn’twanttogobacktoAllenempty-handed.

In the silence there was a sound, like books dropping. Then ashriek and a crash. Graciela frowned. “Will you excuse me?” Sheopenedthedoorto theconsultationroomasJaninereached intoherpocket to check the recording.Suddenly, Janinewasknocked flat onher back. Dropping the phone, she struggled upright, pinned by thesocialworker, tangled inherriverofhair.She finally freedherselfas

Gracielafelltothefloor,landingonherbelly.“Graciela?”Janinesaid,crouchingdown.Shereachedforthewoman’sshoulderandshook,andwhenGracieladidn’trespond,sheturnedherover.

Gracielahadbeenshotintheface.

Janine screamed, noticing for the first time the blood on herhandsandherclothing.Shecouldn’tbreathe.Shecouldn’tthink.Withawhimper,Janinescrambled toher feet, steppedover thebody,andran.

—

WHEN SHE WAS DRIVING with Wren once, Bex had slammed on thebrakes and instinctively had thrownout her right arm to protect thepreciouscargointhepassengerseat.TheMomArm,Wrenhadcalledit.Evenifheractualmomhadnotbeenespeciallydevoted.

Today,assoonasthemancamein,Bex’sbodymovedofitsownaccord.Somethingwasnotright,shehadseenitinhisbodylanguage,sweat beaded on his forehead and matting down his hair. She hadknownonsomevisceral,cellularlevel;andjustaswhenhercarspunontheice,withoutanyconsciousthought,Bexhadreachedtowardherniece.

Shesawtheblinkofthesilverpistolashedrewitfromthefoldsofhiscoat.Sheevensawtheburstoflightningfromthebarrelofthegun,whichrippedaholeinthefabricoftheroom,andsuckedallthesoundoutofit.Shewasawarethatshewaswatchingapantomime,thathereardrumswerefullofpressureandapulsingsilence,butsomehowshewas an actor in this show and she had a line. Bex felt the screamstreamfromherthroat,andeventhoughshecouldn’thearit,themanmust have.He pivoted, andBex felt herself shoved backward beforesheevenrealizedthatthebullethadstruck.

Don’tshootdon’tshootdon’tshoot,shesaidoverandover,eventhoughhealreadyhad.ButBexreallymeant,Don’tshootWren.

ThenWrenwas leaning down over her. “Aunt B-bex, get up…”HereyeswerelikeHugh’s.

Her hair, though, that came from her mother. It brushed Bex’scheek,likeafallofsilk,acurtainthatclosedthemofffromtheworld.

LastyearBexhadopenedanartinstallationinthecenterofSmithPark.Fromthelimbofatreeshehungatinystripedcircustent, just

bigenoughforone.Ifyouslippedinside,yousawaneaselwithawhitecanvas,andascatterofcoloredSharpies.BEFOREIDIE,Bexhadpaintedacrossthetop,IWANTTO…

Overthecourseoftwoweeks,peoplewhocametotheparktoeatlunch or skateboard or read a book had wandered inside out ofcuriosity,andhadcontributedtheirownanswers.

…swiminallfiveoceans.

…runamarathon.

…fallinlove.

…learnMandarin.

WhenBextookdowntheinstallationshehad,attheverybottomofthecanvas,finishedherownopensentence,paintingtheword

Live.

ShestaredupatWrenandimaginedaparalleluniversewhereshecouldstillbreathe,whereshecouldstillmove.Wheresheputherpalmagainstthecheekofherbeautifulgirl.Whereshegottoturnbacktheclock,anddoitover.

—

BEFORE OLIVE HAD RETIRED FROM the university, the dean had handeddownaprotocol fora school shooting.Mississippiallowedconcealedcarryofweapons,andevenifyouweren’tsupposedtobringoneontoacollegecampus,thatdidn’tmeanitwouldn’thappen.However,asshehadtoldPegthatnight,shedidn’twanttohavetogotoworkeverydaywonderingiftodaywouldbethedayshehadtoRun-Hide-Fight.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadeverfeltwearyofherwork,anditwasthefirstseedplantedinhermindthatperhapsitwastimetostopteaching,andtotakeupgardeningorbreadmaking.Theworldwaschanging;maybeit was time to step aside for someone else, who could not only talkabout neural plasticity, but do so while escaping a maniac with asemiautomaticrifle.

Ithadn’tsoundedlikeashot.ThatwasallOlivecouldthinkassheswamupfromthegauzytunnelofherthoughts.Itwaslikepopcorninamicrowave,likeballoonsbursting.Itwasn’tuntilsheheardascreamthatsheeven lookedupandsawapink-hairedgirl racepastherandoutthefrontdoor.

Then she looked down to find a woman bleeding on the carpetwithateenagerhuddledoverher.

Therewasacrashinthebackoftheclinic.

Theteenagerturned,hereyesenormous.“Help.”

Run.

Olivestoodandglancedaroundwildly.Shecouldseeanarmflungbonelessly past the base of the reception desk, a dark arm with afestivalof goldbanglebracelets, swimming inapoolofblood.SweetJesus;thatwasVonita.

Olive grabbed the girl’swrist, pullingher toward the frontdoor,but the girl was steadfastly clinging to the womanwho’d been shot.“Wehavetogetoutofhere,”Olivesaidtoher.

“Notwithoutmyaunt.”

Olive grimaced and tried to pull the other woman up, but evenwithWren’shelp,theycouldn’tmovehermorethanafewinches.Thecrythattorefromthewoman’sthroatwasaredflagthatwoulddrawtheshooteragain.“Ifweleave,wecangetheranambulance.”

Thatconvincedthegirl.ShescrambledtoherfeetasOlivepulledonthedoorhandle,but itwas locked.Youhad tobebuzzed into theclinic,wasitpossibleyouhadtobebuzzedout?Shethrewallherslightweight into themechanism,evenpoundingon thedoor,but itdidn’tgive.

“We’re stuck here?” the girl asked, her voice shimmying up aladderofpanic.

Hide.

Olivedidn’t answer. She opened the first door she could find. Itwasasupplycloset,filledwithboxesononesideandcleaningsupplieson the other. Olive crouched down, pulling the girl inwith her, andshutthedoor.

Thiswaswhereherknowledgeoftheshootingprotocolgotfuzzy.Shehadleftherpurseinthewaitingroom,andwithitherphone.Shecouldn’t call 911. Should she try to barricade the door? If so, withwhat?

She couldn’t help but note that had she not been sitting in awaitingroomcontemplatingmortality,herlifewouldnotbeindanger

rightnow.

Beside her, the girl’s teeth were chattering. “I’m Olive,” shewhispered.“What’syourname?”

“W-Wren.”

“Wren, I want you to listen to me. We can’t make a sound,understand?”

Thegirlnodded.

“That’syourauntoutthere?”

Shejerkedherhead.“Isshe…isshegoingtodie?”

Olivedidn’tknowhowtoanswerthat.Shepattedthegirl’shand.“I’msurethepolicearealreadyontheirway.”

Intruth,shewasnotsureaboutthisatall.Ifshehadthoughtthatthegunshotssoundedlikebubblewrapbeingstompedon,whywouldanyoneoutsidetheclinicevenassumeanythingwaswrong?Fight,shethought, the last stepof theprotocol.Whenyour life is in imminentdangerandyoucannotrunawayorhide,takeaction.

Thedirectiveseemedparticularlyrelevanttoday.

Suddenlyinthedarktherewasasmallrectangleoflight.

“You have a phone,” Olive whisperedwithwonder. “You have aphone!Call911.”

In the reflection of the screen,Wren’s facewas set, determined.Olivewatchedherthumbsfly.“Icandobetterthanthat,”shesaid.

—

IZZYHEARDWHATSOUNDEDLIKEbooksdropping,andthenacryforhelp.Sheopenedthebathroomdoorandsawawomanbleedingonthefloorofthewaitingroom.

Shewasconscious,andclearlyinpain.“Whathappened?”

“Shot,”thewomangroundout.

Izzypresseddownonherchest.“What’syourname,ma’am?I’mIzzy.”Thebullethadgoneintherightside,whichwasgood,becauseitmostlikelymeantherheartwasnotaffected.

“Bex,”thewomangasped.“Needtoget…Wren…”

“Let’s take care of you first.” Izzy reached onto a side table,scrabblingby feel for aboxof tissues, andwadded themup topressintothewound.

Withinseconds,theyweresoakedthrough.“I’llberightback,”shesaid,andshestoodup.Fromthisangleshecouldseeasecondvictim—Vonita, the clinic owner. Izzy started toward her and then saw theopen, vacant eyes, the blood pooled beneath her head. There wasnothingshecoulddo.

Izzy ran into the bathroom and pulled the little decorative shelffrom thewall. She smashed it into the paper towel holder so that itcrackedopen,andthewadoftowelsfelllikeanaccordionaroundherfeet.Gathering them,sherushedback toBex,using these tosoakuptheblood.

With every subsequent gunshot she heard, Izzy’s limbs becamemore liquid. It was only by doing something rote—taking care of apatient—that Izzy was able to keep herself from falling apart. Sheneededtogetoutofhere,anditneededtobenow.ButBexwasalargewoman,andIzzycouldn’tliftheralone.Shecouldsaveherself,butthatwouldmeanleavingBexbehind.

OrshecouldhelpBex—stabilizeherwoundwithbandages.Butifshewenttogetthose,shewasriskingherownlifeandBex’s,becausesomeonehadtostayandapplypressuretothewound.

Whatsheneeded,really,wassomeonetohelp.

—

JUST AS JANINE TURNED the corner and saw themecca of the Center’sfront door, she saw a dead woman. The clinic owner. She gasped,scramblingaway fromthebody,andwhenanotherhandgrippedhershescreamed likeabanshee.Sheopenedhereyesandsawawomanwithafrizzyredbraidandbloodstreakingherscrubs.“Listentome,”she said. “I’manurseand Ineedyourhelp.Thiswomanneedsyourhelp.” She nodded toward another lady lying with a pool of bloodstainingthefloorbeneathherrightshoulder.

Janine could barely force out the words. “B-but … there’s a s-shooter…”

“I know. I also know that she could bleed out. I need to getsupplies to help her. Please, just press down where my hand is. I

promiseitwillonlytakeaminute,andthenyoucango.”

Janinelookedatthedoor;thenursefollowedhergaze.

“Youcouldsaveyourownlife,”thenursesaid,“oryoucouldsavehers,too.”

IftheonlylivesJaninecaredaboutwerethoseoftheunborn,thatwouldmake her a hypocrite. She got to her knees beside the nurse,whopositionedherhandsagainstthewound.

“I’mIzzy.What’syourname?”

“Janine.”

“ThisisBex,”shesaid.“Presshard.”Justlikethat,shewasgone,leavingJaninewithherhandspushinghardonthechestofastranger.

Bexwasstaringupather.“AmIhurtingyou?”Janineasked.

Thewoman shook her head. “You… should go.” She jerked herchinuptowardthedoor.

Janinerealizedthatthiswomanwasgivingheraliteralout,awaytorescueherself.Ifshe leftnow,she’dsurvive.She justmightnotbeabletolivewithherself.

Shesettledmorefirmly,coveringoneofherhandswiththeother,thewayIzzyhadshownher.Bloodwelledbetweenherfingers.“Bex?”Janineasked,smilingasifsheweren’tterrified.“Doyoupray?”

—

GEORGE WAS GASPING FOR AIR, as if he’d run a four-minute mile. Heleaned against thewall, hands shaking. This had to be done, and heknewGodwouldforgivehim.ItwasrightthereinIsaiah43:25:I,evenI, am hewho blots out your transgressions, formy own sake, andremembersyoursisnnomore.

But therewasadifferencebetween the righteousanger thathadaccompaniedhimonhislongdriveandtheactualfeelingofthepistolrecoiling inhishandwhenheshot.Andeven thoughheknew itwasridiculous,therecoilseemedharderwhenhisbulletstruckfleshversuswhenitonlystruckplaster.

Whenhelookeddown,hisjeanswerespatteredwithblood.

Well,hewasn’ttheonewho’dspilleditfirst.

Therewasnowayanyonecouldclaimthathedidn’thaveamoralhighground.Hecouldn’tundowhathadbeendonetoLil.Buthecouldhaveretribution.Hecouldteachthemthelessonhehadnotbeenabletoteachher:lifeissomethingonlyGodshouldgiveandtake.

Georgelookeddownagainatthepistolinhishand.

Hehadforgottenwhatitwasliketowatchsomeonedie.InBosnia,that rapistwho struckhisheadon the curbhadgrabbedatGeorge’sarmandstaredintohiseyesasiftherewereacordstretchedbetweenthem,andas longashedidn’tblink,hewouldbeable tostay in thisworld.

Ithadbeenthesamewhenheopenedfireattheclinicandstruckthereceptionist—hehadseenhereyesthemomenttheywentdark,likeacandleattheendof itswick.Thesecondwomanheshot,well, thatwas an accident.Hehadn’t evennoticedherwhenhewalked inside.Hehadonlylookedatthefrontdeskandwhatwasbeyondit.Butwhenshestartedyelling,hehadtoshutherup.Hehadto.Hisbodyhadjusttakenover.

Georgetoldhimselfthiswasnodifferentfrombeingasoldier.Inwar,killingwasn’tmurder, itwasamission.Todayhe fought for thearmyofGod.Angelsweren’talwaysmessengers.Theycoulddestroyacitywith a twitch of the hand. Sometimes violencewas necessary toremindthefallenofGod’spower.Ifpeopledidn’tloseHisgraceeverynow and then, theywouldn’t realize how lucky theywerewhen theyhadit.

Still,GeorgewonderediftheangelswhohadflattenedSodomandGomorrah,ortheonewhohadkilledSennacherib’sarmy,hadtroublesleeping at night. He wondered if they saw the faces of the deadeverywhere.

Whenhe’dshotthewomaninthewaitingroom,shehadsteppedforwardlikeasacrifice.

Iamdoingthisforyou,hethought,catchinghisdaughter’snamebetweenhisteethashewrenchedhimselfforward.

Iamdoingthisforyou.

—

WHENBETHWASLITTLE,shewouldthrowcouchpillowsonthefloorandpretendtheworldwaslava,andshehadtojumpfromislandtoisland.

Nowthatshewasolder,theworldwasstillaboilingsoupofinjustice,andBethwasjusttryingtogetthroughitasbestshecould.

Shehadneverfeltsoaloneinherlife,butthatwasherownfault.

Shethoughtabouthow,whenshewrappeditinthetowel,ithadasoft, slightweight. Itwas the first time shehadever thoughtof it assomethingreal,insteadofabstract.

When Beth closed her eyes she could still see the bluetranslucenceof itsskin.Theroadmapofcirculation.Theshadowsofits organs. Her pulse began to race, and a moment later Jayla, thenurse,cameintotheroom.Shepushedabuttononamonitor.

“Ismyfatherback?”Bethasked.

Jaylashookherhead.WhenBethhadfirstcomein,Jaylahadheldher hand, strokedher brow. There seemed to be something betweenthemnow,andBethbitherlowerlip.Evenwhenshewasn’ttrying,sheseemedtoscrewthingsup.

Justthentwopolicemenfilledthedoorframe.

“Nathan?”Jaylaswayedtowardoneofthecops,aquestioncaughtbetweenthem.

Heshookhisheadthetiniestbit,andthenturned.“You’reBeth?”

Shedrewherkneestoherchest,afraidtolookathim.

“You’rebeingchargedwithhomicide,forthekillingofanunbornchild.”

Bethhadalready felt thebottomdropoutofherworld. Itwasashocktorealizethathadbeenafalse landing,thatshehadfurthertofall.Shetriedtoputtogetherthepieces,buttheydidn’tfit.Shewasinahospital.Shehadlostsomuchblood.Shehadalmostdied.Theonlypeoplewhoevenknewshehadbeenpregnantweremedicalpersonnel.

SheturnedtoJayla,shocked.“Youcalledthepolice,”shesaid.

“What was I supposed to do?” she exploded. “You claimed youweren’tpregnant,butyouhadsomuchhCGinyourbloodthatcouldn’tbetrueunlessyou’djustdelivered…sotherewasachanceanewbornwasouttheresomewhere.”

“Whataboutpatientconfidentiality?”Bethsaid.

“HIPAAdoesn’tmatterifalifeisindanger,”Jaylaanswered.Her

eyessuddenlyswamwithtears.

“Youhavetherighttoremainsilent,”Nathansaid.“Anythingyousay can andwill beused against you in a court of law.Youhave theright to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will beprovidedforyou.”

The second policeman stepped forward and handcuffed Beth’srightarmtotherailofthehospitalbed.

—

HELP.

Daddy,help.

Wrenmust have written fifty times to her father, but he wasn’tanswering.

She knew he would save her. He always did. There was thebirthday party at the bowling alley when her hand was about to becrushedbetweentwoballs,andheprettymuchleapedoveratable,ametal divider, and a bachelorette party to stick his own hand in thegap.Therewasthemonthshewascertaintherewasanalienlivinginher bedroom closet, when he diligently slept on the floor beside herbed.Therewasthebananabikeraceshehadcompetedinatageeight,whenherbrakesfailedandshewascareeningdownahillintoastreetwithtraffic.Somehowherfatherhadcaughtupandpluckedherofftheseatwithonearmahotsecondbeforeitbecameapretzel.

Dadreflexes,hecalledit.

Shejustthoughtitwaslove.

Help,Wrenwroteagain.

—

ABOUTTWENTYMINUTESafterhis impromptubirthdayparty,Hughwascalled to Chief Monroe’s office for actual business. He leaned back,alreadyknowingwherethisconversationwasgoing.“I’vegotto leaveforlunchinfifteenminutes,”thechiefsaid.“WithHarryVanGeld.”

Hughraisedhisbrows,playingdumb.“Theselectman?”

“Yeah. I understandhis kidwas picked up last night?What canyoutellme?”

“Well,”Hughsaid.“He’sanasshole,forone.”

“That’s not going to help me explain to his father why he waswrittenup.”

“DUI,”Hughsaid.“Butherefusedtoblow.”

“Howcomehewasstopped?”

“Hetookthecornertoofastandhitthecurb.ItwastwoA.M.Keptsayinghisdadwasgoingtohavemyjob.Ididn’tevenknowwhothehellhewas,atfirst,untilIputtwoandtwotogether.”

Thechiefsteepledhishandsonthedesk.“Sowecouldamendthechargetorecklessoperation,ifwedon’thaveenoughforaDUI?”

Hughgrimaced.“Ifyouwanttogothatroute.”

“What’sthatsupposedtomean?”

“He was drunk, Chief.” Hugh shrugged. “He reeked of alcohol.Andhe’sgotareputation.”

Hefelthisphonebuzzinhispocket,andsilenceditwiththepushofabutton.

“Whataboutvideo?”

Hugh shookhishead. “It’s beendown in the cruiser for aweek.Stilltryingtogetitfixed.”

“So no breath test, no video, and we know that Van Geld is adickheadwho’sgoingtobepissedifwechargehiskidwithaDUI.”HefrownedatHugh.“What.”

“Whatwhat?”

“What’s the look for? You’re acting like I just said I’m going todrownyourpuppy.Ifthekidhadblowna3.0,thatwouldbeonething.Buthedidn’t,andyoudon’thaveaBAC.Hemighthavebeendrunk.Hedefinitely was reckless. Consider it erring on the side of caution.Wedon’tneedheat from the selectboard. It’snotworth it.Domeasolidhere,Hugh.Amenditbeforethearraignment.”

“Because he didn’t kill anyone last night?” Hugh asked. “Howabouttomorrow?”

Hisphonevibratedagain.

ChiefMonroe stoodupandgrabbedhis sports jacket. “Consideryourselfluckythatyoudon’thavetohavelunchwithhisfather.”

“Guessthat’swhyyoumakethebigbucks.”Hughleanedbackinhischair.

“Keepthetownrunningsmoothlyforme,willyou?”thechiefsaid.Hehadahabitoftakinghisluncheswiththeradiochatterturnedlow,trustingthedailyrunofthestationtoHughwhennecessary.

Hugh shook his head. “The guys are going to feel like you soldthemout,”hesaidasthechiefwalkedthroughthedoor.

“Not if you explain it to them,” Monroe called back over hisshoulder.

Hugh shook his head. “Definitely above my pay grade,” hemuttered.Hestoodupandreachedinhispocketforhisphone.

StandbyforaCodeRedmessage…

The voice of the dispatcher piped through the intercoms of thebuilding. Hugh let his phone drop back into his pocket. From thewindowofthechief’soffice,hesawMonroe’scarpulloutofthelot.

Beadvised,wehaveanactiveshooterincidenttakingplaceatthecornerofJuniperandMontfort.AllswornmembersaretoreporttotheCommandPostat320Juniper,thePizzaHeavenparkinglot,andawait further instructions. All responding members are to ensurethey have their body armor. This is an active shooter situation. Irepeat,allswornmembersaretoreport—

Hughdidn’t hear the rest of the announcement.Hewas alreadyrunningoutthedoor.

—

LOUIEWASWRITING DOWNNOTES in JoyPerry’s filewhenHarriet camebackintotheprocedureroom.Shehadsettledthepatientinrecoveryandhadmovedtheproductsofconceptiontothelabroom,whereshewoulddoa second review.Nowshe started stripping thepaper fromtheexaminationtable,gettingitreadyforthenextpatient.Youcouldneversaythattheirnursesdidn’tworktheirassesoff, that’s forsure.“YougotanyHalloweencandy?”

Harriet laughed.“Ifyoukeeptakingmystashtherewon’tbeanybythetimeit’sHallo—”

Whatevershesaidfadedawayasarainofbulletsexplodedoutsidetheprocedureroom.

LouiegrabbedHarrietandpulledherdowntothefloorbehindtheexaminationtable.Heputhisfingertohislips,forsilence.Heshouldhaveclosedthedoor.Whyhadn’theclosedthedoor?

He knew, right away, what was happening. This was thenightmare that he couldn’t remember when he woke up in a coldsweat; thiswas thebogeyman, all grownup; thiswas theother shoedropping. It was not that he had obsessed about violence as anabortion provider, but he had been aware of the possibility. He hadhad colleagueswhowere hurt. Louie couldn’t let himselfworry overwhatmighthappen tohim ifhewasgoing tokeepdoinghis job.Heknew abortion doctors who wore masks to work to conceal theiridentities;hehadneverwantedtobeoneofthosepeople.Whathedidwashonorableand just.Whathedidwashuman.Hewasn’tgoingtohide.

Itwasnotthathehadnaïvelybelievedthisdaymightnotcome.In1993,anarsonisthadburneddowntheCenter,andVonitahadhadtorebuild.In1998,aftertheabortionclinicinBirminghamwasbombedbyEricRudolph,Louiehadgonetoofferhissupport.HerememberedtheATFmappingoutthetrajectoryofthebomb,whichhadbeenfullofnails:pinkstring,pulledtightfromwherethebombhadbeenplacedtoeverychairinthewaitingroomandthereceptionist’sdesk,aspider’swebofintendeddamage.Andyethehadlistenedtothephoneringasnew appointmentsweremade and hadwatchedwomenmarch rightpast news trucks to have their abortions. After that, Vonita hadcontemplatedputtingbulletproofglassaroundthereceptiondesk,likeherhusbandhadtoldhertodo,butifthepatientswerestrongenoughto push past the protesters who told them they were going to hell,shouldn’tthestaffbebraveenoughtomeetthemface-to-face?

Now,Louiewas shaking,hard.He tried tohearwhere the shotswerebeing fired—if theyweregettingcloser—buttherewasastrangedistortioninthesound.Itwasn’t,hethought,likethemoviesmadeitouttobe.Ontheheelsofthat:thiswasafacthewishedhehadneverhadtolearn.

OnhisfirstdayattheCenter,Louiehadarrivedearly.Hewalkedacross the parking lot, where he ran into a little old lady carrying achair.MayI?heasked,takingitfromher.Shethankedhim,andafewhundredfeetlatersaidthatthiswasherspot.Louieunfoldedthechairand realizedhewas smack in the centerof agroupofprotesters.He

walked away and ducked into Lenny’s Sub Shop across the street,whereheorderedachickensaladsandwichandaDietCokeandsatatthecounter.Afewminuteslaterherealizedthatsomeonewasstandingat the window taking his picture—the old lady he’d helped.Do youknowher?thewaitressasked,andLouiesaidno,hehadneverbeeninMississippi before today, but that heworked across the street at theCenter. The waitress rapped on the window. If you ain’t buyinganything,stop loitering, she said.She turned toLouie.Those peopleneedtomindtheirownbusiness,shesaid.

When Louie finished his sandwich, the old ladywaswaiting forhim.Shefollowedhimacrossthestreet,shoutingthewholetime.Youshould be ashamed of yourself. You’re not a real doctor. You’re abutcher.

Louierealizedtwothingsthatday:thatthewaitressmightnotbean abortion doctor or even go to a pro-choice rally, but she was anactivist all the same. And that you could not underestimate an anti.Hadthatsweetoldgrandmawantedto,shehadbeencloseenoughtoshankhim.

WhenhehadgotteninsidetheCenterthatday,hehadbrokenoutinasweat.Forthepasttenyears,hehadneverbeencareful.Hedidn’tleavethebuildinguntiltheendoftheday.Heorderedfoodin.AslongashestayedintheCenter,itwasasafespace.

Untilnow.

Harrietwascrying.Herhandshookasshereachedforherphoneandtypedoutatext.Toherhusband,maybe?Herkids?Didshehavekids?Whydidn’tLouieknowthat?

Louie’s phone was locked up in Vonita’s office, along with hiswallet. Who would he contact, anyway? He had no family left, nosignificantother—forthisveryreason.Because itwasenoughthatheput himself on the front lines every day, doing the work he did. Itwasn’t fair for someone else to suffer by sheer proximity. Dr. King’swords floated intohismind: Ifamanhasnotdiscovered somethingthat he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.Would he die, today, for hisprinciples?Orhadhealreadydiedyearsago,bypledginghimselftohisworkandcuttinghimselfofffromotherswhomightgetclosetohim?If his heart stopped beating today, would it just be a belatedannouncementofadeaththathadalreadyhappened?

Sometimes, at bars or conferences or weddings, hemet womenwho were impressed by his bravado. They asked if he was worriedaboutviolenceatclinics,andheshruggeditoff.He’dsay,Lifeisfatal;noneofusaregettingoutofherebreathing.

It was easy to make that joke, in response to a hypotheticalquestion.Butnow?

Hedidnotwant todie,but ifhedid,hehoped itwouldbeswiftandnotlingering.

Hedidnotwanttodie,butifhedid,hebelievedhe’dbeenasgoodamanashecouldhavebeen.

Hedidnotwanttodie,butifhedid,hewouldhavegottenmoretimethanMalcolmorMartinhad.

Andyet.Goddammit.Hewasn’tfinishedyet.

Ahigh-pitchedwhinewheezedoutofHarriet;Louiewassureshedidn’t even know shewasmaking the sound.He grabbed her handsandforcedhertomeethisgaze.“Harriet,youallright?”Sheshookherhead,tearsrunning.“Harriet,lookatme.”

Louiecouldseeoverhershoulderintothehallway.Heflickedhisglanceawayfromthenurse,scanningformovement,forshadows.Fiveminutespassed.Orfifteen.Hecouldn’ttell.

“Dr.Ward,”Harrietwhispered,“Idon’twanttodie.”

Hesqueezedherhands.“Harriet.Youjustkeepyoureyesrightonme,youhear?”

She nodded, swallowed.Her eyes fixed on his,wide and brown,trusting.Heheldherfaithtight,evenashesawthroughhisperipheralvisionthesilhouettethatrosebehindherinthedoorway;thetwistofthepistol; thegrimslashofamouthas theman’s featurescameintofocus.

Louie’s legexplodedinpain.Theworldnarrowedtothethrobofhisthighandthefirelickingthroughthemuscle.ThenHarrietfellontopofhim.Hesuckedinthesmellofgardeniaonherskin,tastedthecopperofblood.

Footsteps.Closer.

Louiepretendedtobedead.Ormaybehewishedittobetrue.

—

IZZYCREPTDOWNTHEHALLWAY,certainthatshehadfallenintoamirroruniverseofchaosanddiscordandgore.Theshooterhadleftmacabrebreadcrumbs—shattered windows, smears of blood, empty shells.Every instincttoldhertoturnaroundandrunintheotherdirection,but she couldn’t. Itwasn’theroism thatdroveher toward the supplycloset but the fear of learning that she was not the woman she hadalwaysbelievedherselftobe.

Theprocedureroomdoorwasajarandshecouldseetherowsofglasscabinetsfilledwithgauzeandtape.Shecouldalsoseetwobodies.

Shefelltoherknees,rollingthenurseover,feelingforapulseandfinding none. She did the same with the doctor, who moaned,unconscious.Hehadbeenshotinthelegandsomeonehadtiedplastictubingaroundhisthigh,amakeshifttourniquet.Ithadprobablysavedhis life. “Can you hear me?” she asked, as she tried to tighten thetubing.

Shewasattemptingtogaugewhethershecoulddraghimtosafetywhensheheardtheclickofthehammer.

Theshootersteppedoutfrombehindthedoor,wherehehadbeenconcealed.Izzyfroze,angryatherownstupidity.

Hewasolder thanshewas—maybe inhis forties.Hehadbrownhairwithaneatpart.Hewaswearingabuffaloplaidfleecejacket,eveninthisinfernalheat.Helooked…ordinary.Thekindofmanyouletcutinthesupermarketlinebecauseheonlyhadafewitems.Thekindofmanwhosatnexttoyouonthebus,saidhello,andthenleftyoualonefortherestofthetrip.Thekindofmanyoudidn’treallynotice.

Untilhestormedintoaclinicholdingagun.

Therehadbeenseveral times inthepastIzzybelievedshemightdie.Whentherewasn’tfoodforawholeweek.Whentheheatwascutoffandthetemperaturedippedintotheteens.Yetshehadknown,asakid, that there was always something you could do: eat from theneighbor’s trash; sleep in layers of clothes, nested between yoursiblings.Asanurse,shehadcheateddeathonbehalfofherpatients,reminding a stopped heart of how to beat or breathing for someonewithherownlungs.Nothinghadpreparedher,however,forasituationlikethis.

Izzywantedtobegforherlife,butshecouldn’t;shewastremblingsohardthathermouthwouldn’tformwords.Shewonderedifthegirland thewoman in thewaitingroomwouldsurvive; if theywould tellthepresshowbraveIzzywas,runningtowardthesoundofthegunfirejust so that she could help others. She wondered how long it wouldtakebeforeParkerheard.Shewonderedifthepeoplewhowouldhavecometotheirweddingwouldcometoherfuneral,instead.

“GetawaysoIcanfinishhim,”theshootersaid,andsherealizedthathisweaponwaspointednotather,butatthedoctor.

Therearemoments in your life that changeyou.Likewhen Izzystole a hot dog from a gas station, because she hadn’t eaten in fourdays.Whensheopenedasavingsaccount.When,threeyearsago,shewalkedintoParker’scubicleinahospital.

Shewasn’tgoingtodiewithoutputtingupadamngoodfight.

Izzythrewherselfsquareinfrontofthedoctor’sbody,spreadingherarmsasifshecouldcreateashield.

Theshooterlaughed.“Ihaveenoughbulletsforyouboth,”hesaid.

Ican’tstopabullet,Izzythought.ButIcanstophimfromfiringone.

Izzy forcedherself to lookhim in theeye.Hewasabasilisk;shecould be turned to stone. But he was also a gunman in an abortionclinic; presumably he was pro-life. She gathered all the threads ofcourageshecouldfind,anddrewthemtogetherintoafierceknot.“Youcan’tshootme,”shesaid.“I’mpregnant.”

A

Tena.m.

S BEX PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT OF THE CENTER, a protesterjumped out in front of her car. Bex slammed on the brakes.He

shouted,wavinghishandsoverthehood.Inthepassengerseat,Wrenwatched,wide-eyed. “I thought you said theyhadpeople tohelpyougetinside,”Bexsaidtoherniece.“Idon’tseeanyoneinapinkpinny.”

“Maybeit’stooearly,”Wrensaid.AsBexmovedatasnail’spaceintothelot,Wrencranedherneck.IntherearviewmirrorBexwatchedthemangobacktotheothersonthefarsideofthefence.Anelderlyladypouredhimacupofcoffeefromathermos.

Bexpulledintoaparkingspotandflexedherhandonthesteeringwheel.“Youcouldwalkmein,”Wrensuggested,hervoicesmall.

Bexlookedather,tortured.She’ddoanythingforWren.“Honey,I…”

“Forgetit.Youcanwaitinthecar.Itshouldn’ttakeverylong.”

Bexdrew in her breath. “I believe awoman shoulddowhatevershewantswithherownbody,Ido.ButIcan’tsayI’dpersonallymakethatchoice.”

“YoudorememberI’mnotheretogetanabortion?”Wrensaid.

“Well,ofcourse.But…”

She couldn’t say what she was thinking. That even ifWrenwasheaded inside for a completely benign reason, there were still otherwomen in there,maybewomenwhohadn’t had aunts to bring themhere,whohad runoutofoptions.Womenwhowere creating secretstheywouldhidefromothers.Itmadehersicktoherstomach.

Wren set her unfinished chocolate crème donut on the consolebetweenthem.“Don’tgetanyideas,”shewarned.

BexwatchedherwalktowardtheCenter.Butthenatruckcrossedher fieldofvision. It stoppeddead in frontofherMini,blockingherview.

Bexhonkedherhornandgestured:Whatthehell?Themaninthetruckglancedatherdismissively.Shewonderedifhewaslost.Hewasalone in the car; there was nowomanwith himwhomight have anappointment.

ShesawWrenreachthechain-linkfenceandthelineofpro-lifers.Onewomanleanedover,reachingforher.

Oh,hellno.

BexwasoutofthecarandhuffingtowardtheCenterfasterthangreengrassthroughagoose.ShecaughtupwithWrenandloopedherarmaroundherniece,anchoringhertighttoherside.

Wrenturned,surprised.“But—”

“Nobuts,”Bexsaidfirmly.“You’renotgoingintherealone.”

—

“YOU’RE LATE,” said Helen, the dispatcher, as Hugh walked into thepolicedepartment.

Hughcheckedhiswatch.“I’mtenminutesearly,”hesaid.

“Notforthestaffmeeting.”

“Whatstaffmeeting?”

“Theonethat’sgoingoninthestaffroom,”Helenreplied.

“Shit.”Hughwaited forHelen tobuzzhim in,and then took thestairstwoatatimetothebasement,wherethestaffroomwas.Thelasttimehe’dmissedastaffmeeting,thechiefhadgoneoffonhimfornottakinghispositionseriously,andhowwashesupposedtotreatHughasadefactosecondincommandwhenheskippedthelessglamorouspartsofpolicework.

He skidded around the corner, hoping to make an unobtrusiveentrance,whenheheardthechief’sboomingvoice.“Finally,DetectiveMcElroy’s decided to grace us with his presence. Speaking ofpresents…”

The whole of the force began to sing “Happy Birthday.” Hissecretary, Paula, held out a platter of donuts arranged into thenumbers4-0.Onehadacandlestuckinit.

Hughblushed.Hehated being the center of attention.Hehatedbirthdays.Theywerebasicallymarkersinthecalendaryeartorenew

hislicenseandhisregistration,andtohaveanannualcheckup.

Paulawalkedtowardhimandsettheplatterdownonthetable,sohecouldblowouthiscandle.“Makeawish,”shesaid,standingathisshoulder.

“Whotoldyouitwasmybirthday?”hesaidthrougharigidsmile.

“Facebook,”Paulamurmured.“Nevershouldhavefriendedme.”

Hughclosedhiseyesandmadeawish,blewoutthecandle.“Weallchippedin,”oneof the juniordetectivessaid,“andweboughtyouthis.”Heheldupacane,decoratedwithabrightredbow.

Everyone laughed, including Hugh. “Thanks. That’ll come inhandywhenIwanttobeatthecrapoutofyoulater.”

“Paula,” the chief said, “don’t forget to make a prostate examappointment for our boy.” He clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “Allright, grab your donut and let’s get back to work. It’s not like it’sJesus’sbirthday.JustHugh’s.”

Hugh accepted the good wishes of everyone in the department,untilhewasleftalonewithPaulainthestaffroom.

“Youdon’tlooksohappyforabirthdayboy,”shesaid.

“I’mnotabigfanofsurprises.”

She shrugged. “You know what my husband got me for myfortieth?”shesaid.“Knockedup.”

Hughlaughed.“Idon’tthinkthat’sinthecardsforme.”

“Whatdidyouwish?”

He opened hismouth, but Paulawaved her hand. “No, no, thatwas a trick question. You can’t tell me, because it won’t come true.Honestly,Hugh.Haveyouneverhadabirthdaybefore?”Shehandedhimaplatewiththreedonutsonit.“Yougettheextra,becauseyou’respecial.Butonlyfortoday.Don’tgolettingthisgettoyourhead.”Shegrinnedandlefthimaloneinthestaffroom.

Hetookthecandlefromthedonutonthetop.Whathe’dwishedforwas,quitesimply, theonethinghecouldn’thave.Hewishedthateverything could stay the way it was, right now—withWrenmakinghim eggs for breakfast, and people who cared enough about him atworktothrowhimasillyparty,andhishealthintact.Hewishedthat

he could keep getting up morning after morning, with the worldremaining unchanged. That was the thing about feeling like life wasgood. Evenwhen itwas—especially when it was—you knew you hadsomethingtolose.

—

MY GOD, COULD THIS BE any more embarrassing? Izzy had barelyapproachedthereceptiondeskbeforeawaveofnausearolledoverher.She’d bolted for the door marked BATHROOM, and had gottenprofoundlysick.Shewipedhermouthandthentookastackofpapertowels,wetthemdowninthesink,andrubbedthemovertheclammyskinofherfaceandneck.

Therewasaknockonthedoor,andIzzyopeneditacrack.“Youallright?”saidthewomanwhohadbeensittingatthefrontdesk.

“Iamsosorry,Miz—”

“Vonita,”shesupplied.

“Iamnotusuallyquitesorude,”Izzysaid.

Vonita passed her a small tin of gingermints. “These help,” shesaid, matter-of-fact. “When you’re ready, come on out and we’ll getacquainted.”

Izzy closed the door and sat down on the closed toilet seat. Shefoundherselfthinkingofthetimeshewasinthirdgradeandshedidn’thaveawintercoat.Shehadgonetotheschoolsecretaryandtoldhersheneededtocheckthelostandfound,andthenshehadpickedoutacoat that didn’t belong to her. The worst part was that the schoolsecretaryhadknowndamnwellitwasn’tIzzy’scoat,butshedidn’tsayanything.

Vonitawasbeingnothingbutkind,buttherewassomethinginhereyes that made Izzy feel like the other woman already knew all hersecrets.

Well. Izzywasanurse.Thiswasnot the first timeshehadfacedsomethingnewandoverwhelming,anditwasnotthefirsttimeshe’dhadtobluffherwaythroughasituationuntilconfidencecaughtuptoher.

Shemightbe inanabortionclinic,but shehadbeenandalwayswouldbeasurvivor.

—

AS SOON AS SHE HAD seen the blood, she knew it couldn’t be good.WomenOlive’sagedidn’thavespotting,especiallywhentheyweren’theterosexuallyactive.Addtothatthepainshe’dhadurinatingandtheodd numb tingles in her leg, and it was enough for her to go to theCenter.Foryears, thatwaswhereshehadgone forhergynecologicalcheckups.Harriet,thenursepractitioner,haddoneanexamandthenhadturnedtoher.“WhenwasthelasttimeyouhadaPapsmear?”shehadasked.

Well.LongenoughthatOlivecouldn’tremember.

“Olive,”Harriethadsaid.“Ithinkyoushouldseeanoncologist.”

Thathadbeentwoweeksago.Intheaftermath,she’dhadachestX-ray, an abdominopelvic MRI, a CBC, and an electrolyte and liverseries.Shehadheardwhat theoncologist said,butmaybe shedidn’treallybelievehim.Ormaybesheneededtohearitfromsomeonesheknewandtrusted.

Shesatnowintheexaminationroom,waitingforHarriettocomein. Themedical file from the gynecological oncologist’s officewas inherhands.ItmightaswellhavebeenGreek:

Fungating mass, exophytic, with obstruction of the right pelvicsidewall.

Moderate right hydronephrosis; posterior involvement through therectosigmoid serosal and muscularis … pelvic and paraaorticlymphadenopathy…noevidenceofascites.

Creatinine:2.4mg/dL;hematocrit:28%

Hell,Greekwouldhavemademoresensetoher.

The door opened. “Olive,” Harriet said. “How are you feeling?Whatdidtheoncologistsay?”

Olive handed her the file. “I should have brought a translatoralong.”

Harrietscannedthepapersinside.“Neuroendocrinecarcinomaofthecervix,”sheread.“Oh,Olive.”

“Carcinoma,” Olive repeated. “That was the one word I didunderstand.”Sheshookherhead.“Thedoctor talked tome.Well,hetalkedatme.Ijust…stoppedhearinghimafterafewminutes.”

“Youhavecervicalcancer,”Harrietsaidgently.“I’msosorry.”

“Areyousureit’snotamistake?HowcouldI?I’malesbian.”

“Lesbians actually have higher rates of cervical cancer,” Harrietsaid.“Theydon’tgetmonitoredbecausetheyaren’thavingpenetrativeintercourse. There’s a certain type that nuns get—not the kind that’ssquamous cell cancer, which is associated with HPV—but one evenvirginscancontract.”

“Wellthankfully,”Olivesaid,“I’mnotoneofthose.”Shelookedatthenurse.“Howbad?”

“It’sstagefour,metastatic.Doyouknowwhatthatmeans?”

“It’slikewinningthelottery,”Olivereplied.“ButShirleyJackson’skind.”

Harrietstaredatherblankly.

“Nevermind.”

Thenurselookeddownatthenumbersagain.“It’sinyourlungs;possiblyinyourliver.It’sblockingyourrightkidney.”ShelookedOlivein the eye. “I’m going to level with you. It’s unlikely that someonewhose cancer has spread this far can be cured. I’m sure there arethings the oncologist can do to help you have a good quality of life,but…youshouldgetyouraffairsinorder.”

Olivefelthermouthgodryasdust.She,whoalwayshadawittyretort,hadnothingtosay.“Howlong?shefinallymanaged.

“Sixtoeightmonths,I’mguessing.Ihatetosaythat,Olive.AndIhopetohellI’mwrong.ButifIwereyou,I’dwantsomeonetotellmethetruth.”

Olive sat in the stew of that information, sinking in her ownsudden,inevitablemortality.ShefeltHarriet’sarmscomearoundher,holdhertightly.

This.ThiswaswhyshehadcometotheCenter.Sheknewalreadywhatwashidinginsidethatmedicalfolder.Shehadjustnotwantedtofaceitalone.

Therewasasharpraponthedoor,andthenDr.Wardstuckhisheadinside.“Harriet?It’sgotime.”HesmiledatOliveandclosedthedooragain.

Olivehadsomanyquestions:Wasitherfault—somedeficiencyindiet or somepromiscuity in college that had led to this?Howwouldshe tell Peg? Would it happen fast, or would it be a slow decline?Wouldithurt?Wouldshestillbeherself,attheend?

Harrietsteppedback,stillholdingOlive’shands.Shegavethemafinalsqueeze.“Ineedtogoassist.Yougoingtobeallright?”

SheleftwithouthearingOlive’sresponse.Buttheybothknewtheanswer,anyway.

—

WHENWRENHADSTARTEDhighschool,twomonthsago,shesufferedtheusual freshmanpranks: being told therewas a pool in the basementwhentherewasn’t,findingshavingcreaminherlocker,beingsquirtedwithwatergunsasshewalkeddowntheforeignlanguagehallway.Shelearned pretty fast which routes through the school were safe andwhichonesweren’t. Theplace shehated themost, however,was thePit, which was an outside corridor connecting two arms of thebuilding,wherethesmokershungoutbetweenclasses.She’drunthegauntlet, knowing these kids smelled her fear and her naïveté, weremakinguptheirmindsaboutherwithoutknowingheratall.

That’s what it felt like now, walking past the line of protesters.Some of them smiled at her, even as they waved posters of bloodybabies inher face. Some chantedDr. Seuss:Aperson’s aperson, nomatterhowsmall. “Can you comehere for a sec?” onewoman said,with the kind of apologetic smile you use when you are truly sorryaboutaskingforhelp,becauseyourcarhasbrokendownonthesideoftheroadoryourphoneisdeadandyouneedtocallhomeoryouarejuggling too many groceries in your arms and wishing you’d beensmart enough to take a basket. Instinct tugged her in that direction,becauseWrenhadalwaysbeenagoodgirl.Thewomanhad redhairand funky purple glasses and looked incredibly familiar, but Wrencouldn’tplaceher.Still,shedidn’twanttoruntheriskthatthewomanmightrecognizeher,too—whatifsheworkedatthepolicedepartmentor something, and spilled this secret to her dad? So she ducked herheadasthewomanstuffedalittlegoodiebaginherhand,likethekindyougotatakid’sbirthdayparty.

Just then her aunt was glued to her side. “You’re not going intherealone,”Bexsaid,andWrenwrappedherarmsaroundheraunt’s

neckandhuggedhertight.

Wren knew it made her sound like a total bitch, but she didn’treally pine for hermom. Part of it was because hermother had leftwhenWrenwaslittle;partofitwasbecauseofheraunt,whofilledinanyemptyspaces.

Aunt Bex had sewed her a colonial dress for the AmericanRevolutionunitthey’ddoneinsecondgrade.(Well,she’dhot-gluedit—shewasn’tparticularlygoodwithaneedle.)ShehadnevermissedaT-ballgameandbroughtsweetteaforalltheotherparents.SheevenhungWren’slamewatercolorsonherwall;she,whowasanartistandknewdamnwell theywere terrible. It seemed toWren thathavingamother had a lot less to do with a few sweaty hours of labor anddeliveryandalotmoretodowithwhosefaceyoualwayslookedforinacrowd.

As if sheneededanymoreproof, herewasBexbesideher, eventhough Wren knew how much it cost her. She knew Aunt Bex hadneverhadchildrenandthatfactmaybeevenhadsomethingtodowithheraversion to theCenter.But inaway,WrenwassecretlygladBexbelongedonlytoher.

By the time they were buzzed inside, sweat had broken outbetweenWren’sshoulderblades.“Yousitdown,”Wrentoldheraunt.“Icancheckmyselfin.”

Therewereafewpeopleinthewaitingroom,andatelevisionwason,withthesoundmuted.Atthereceptiondesksatawomanwiththemost stunning tower of braids Wren had ever seen—thick red andblacksnakestwinedaroundeachother.SheworeanametagthatreadVONITA,andshewasonthetelephone.ShesmiledatWrenandheldupa finger, suggesting she’d only be another moment. “In the state ofMississippiit’satwo-dayprocess.That’sright.SoThursdaywouldbeyourcounselingsession,yourlabwork,andasonogram.Thenextday,whenyouhaveyourprocedure,you’llbeherefromanhourandahalftothreehours.IfyouwanttoscheduleanappointmentIcanhelpyouwiththatnow.”Shepaused,thenpickedupapen.“Name?Age?Dateof lastperiod?Goodcontactphonenumber?Soyou’re scheduled forThursday at nine A.M. Now, write down your appointment date andtime because we can’t verify if you call back and ask when it is, forconfidentialityreasons.YouhavetobringahundredandfiftydollarsandyourphotoID.Cashorcard.Nolargebags,nopurses,nokids.All

right then. You’re welcome.” She hung up the phone and smiled atWren.“Sorryaboutthat.HowcanIhelpyou?”

“I’mhereforanappointment,”Wrensaid,andthenhastily,“Butnot…notlikethekindyoujustscheduled.Myname’sWrenMcElroy.”

“Ren…Ren…”Thewomanscannedalist.

“WithaW.”

“Ah. Here you are.” Vonita checked her in and handed her aclipboard.“Justfilloutthisformforme,andwe’llgetyouinassoonaspossible.”

Wren sat across from the television. She scribbled down herinformation—theusualstuff—name,address,age,allergies.

Besideher,AuntBexwasgoingthroughthelittlegoodiebagWrenhadbeenhandedbytheprotester.Smarties.ChapStick.Apairoftinyblueknitbooties.“Well,thosearesweet,”Bexsaid.

Shedugouthandsanitizer,breathmints,andtwosmallsoaps.

“Maybe they think we’re all dirty,” Wren said. She plucked theflyerfromthelittlebagandbegantoread:Pleasedon’trushintothisdecision.AbortionisFOREVER.

If you are in an abortion center right now, you can just leave.Youdon’thavetotellanyone.Ifyou’vealreadypaid,wecanhelpyougetyourmoneyback.

Wren opened the pamphlet. There were pictures of gummy,bright-eyedbabies.

BeforeIformedyouinthewomb,Iknewyou.–God

“You think that’s a direct quote?” Bex asked, reading over hershoulder.

Wren stifled a laugh. “My history teacherwould not accept thatcitation.”

On the back panel was a list of the alleged consequences ofchemicalandsurgicalabortion:

perforated uterus, chronic and acute infections, intense pain,excessivebleedingrequiringtransfusion,riskoffuturemiscarriages,infertility,cancer,death.

Feelingsofguilt,anger,helplessness.Mentalbreakdown.Depression,nightmares,andflashbacks.Inabilitytofeeljoyaboutlife.Feelingofseparation from God. Fear of not being forgiven. Alienation fromfamily and friends. Loss of relationship with boyfriend or spouse.Promiscuity.Drugabuse.Suicide.

It remindedWrenof thoseadson television forantidepressants.Yeah, we’ll stop those mood troughs, but you might wind upincontinent, with high blood pressure, with increased suicidaltendencies,or,hey,dead.

Wren looked at the bold type at the bottom. YOU ARE NOTALONE.WECAREABOUTYOU!

Suddenly she remembered where she had seen that redheadedwoman.Shewastheparentofaninthgrader,andshehadraisedholyhell over a unit in health class where they studied contraceptiveoptions.ThedayWrenhadtorollacondomontoabanana,thewomanhad barged into the room, spewing craziness about impressionablemindsandGodandtherhythmmethod.Wrenhadfeltbadforherson,whowasmovedtothelibraryduringhealthfromthenon.

Wrenshookherhead,nowthatsherealizedthatthiswomanwhowas anti-contraception was also anti-abortion. Wasn’t thatcounterintuitive?Ifyoudidn’twantabortions,shouldn’tyouatleastbethrowing free condoms and birth control pills out to anyone whowouldtakethem?Shouldn’tthatwomanhavebeencheeringforWrentocometotheCenterandgetthePill,insteadofberatingher?

Wren looked down at the pamphlet again.WE CARE ABOUTYOU!

Ornot.

Shewalkedacrosstheroomandtosseditintothetrash.

—

“DADDY,”BETHCRIED.“DADDY?”

Frustrationfoamedinherfather’swake,buthedidn’tlookbackashe left.Henearlymoweddownthenurse,hurrying togetaway fromher.

Awayfromwhatshehaddone.

Jaylapeeredather.“Youokay?”sheaskedgently.

Bethshookherhead,unabletospeak.

Thenursesatdownon theedgeofBeth’sbed. “Ididn’tmean toeavesdrop,”shesaid,“butit’sprettyhardwhenthedoor’swideopen.”Shehesitated.“Thisisn’tmyusualfloor,youknow.Iworkontheorthofloor,butI’mcoveringforacolleaguewhoneededapersonalday.SoI’mnotsurewhattheprotocolishere.”

Bethwipedhereyes.“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Well, inortho, if I foundoutmypatient isan intravenousdruguserorhassomeotherhistoryshedidn’tdisclosetothedoctors,I’dtellmysupervisor.Itcouldbeamatteroflifeordeath.WhatI’mtryingtosayisthatyoureallydoneedtotellmethetruth.”ShelookedatBeth.“So,”shesaid,“whichisit?”

Bethblinkedather.Shefeltthewallspressingin.

“Youtoldmeyoudidn’tknowyouwerepregnant.ButIjustheardyoutellyourfatheryouwenttoanabortionclinic.”

Bethflushed.“Iwantmyfather…”

“If you had a surgical abortion and it didn’t go right and that’swhat’scausedthebleeding,yourhealthcouldbeindanger.Beth,youcoulddie.”

Bethwipedhereyeswiththecornerofthehospitaljohnny.“Ididgo to the clinic,” she admitted. “But they said they couldn’t helpmeunlessIwenttoajudge.SoIfilledoutalltheformsandgotahearingscheduledandthenIgotacallsayingthejudgecouldn’tseemefortwoweeks.”ShelookedupatJayla.“Icouldn’twaitthatlongandthengobacktotheclinic.Itwouldbetoolate.”

Bethstartedtocrysohardshecouldn’tcatchherbreath.“Ididn’thaveachoice,”shesobbed,curlingintoherself,makingashellofherownbody.“Yougetthat,right?”

Jaylastrokedherback.“Okay,”shesaid.“Okay.Deepbreaths.”

Ifonlytheyhadusedacondom.

Ifonlyshewasn’tundereighteen.

Ifonlythejudgehadshownupwhenhewassupposedto.

Ifonlyshehad lived inBostonorNewYork,where therewasn’tjustoneclinic,butmany.

Ifonlyithadn’tbeensodamnhardtofixthisonherown.

Ifonlyshe’dkeptthebaby.

The thought crawled intohermind likea spider.Shewould stillhavefacedherfather’sanger.Shewouldstillhavebeenawhore,inhiseyes.Forallsheknew,hewouldhavethrownherout.

Forallsheknew,hestillmight.

Thatmadehercryevenharder,whichwaswhyshedidnothearJayla slip into the hallway, take out her cellphone, and call herhusband.“Nathan,”thenursesaid,“Ineedyourhelp.”

—

JANINE SAT ON THE EXAMINATION table, panicking. It was one thing tocomeintotheCenterusingafakeID,andregisterforanabortion,andsit througha counseling session.But itwasanother thingentirely tododgethestate-mandatedultrasound.Somehow,sheneededtogettheevidence she had come here for. Just lastmonth in another state, apro-lifegirlhadgoneintoaclinicundercover,likeJanine,andhadtolda counselor that shewas thirteen and her boyfriendwas twenty-fiveandshewantedanabortion.Thecounselorhadsaid,ontape,Ididn’thearthat. The damning audio hadmade the rounds of the Internet,andhadevenairedonHannityonFoxNews.

Janineheardthequickknockandslippedherphoneintoherdresspocket,hitting the recordbuttonon thevoicememo justas thedoorswung open. The social worker smiled. “Hello there,” she said. “I’mGraciela.Sowe’regoingtodoyourultrasound,right?”

Janine felt herself break into a sweat. She needed to get thiswomantalking.“Wait!”sheblurtedout.“Ihaveallergies!”

“Tolatex?”

Janineswallowed.“To,like,everything.Iforgottowriteitdown.”

Gracielamadeanoteinherfileandthenturnedontheultrasoundmachine.Ithummedalive,asiftheywereallanorchestraandthiswasthe note they must become attuned to. “What if I don’t want anultrasound?”Janineasked.

“I’mafraidyoudon’thaveachoice.ThestatesaysIhavetodoonetoday,andaskyouifyou’dliketoseeit.Youcansayno,ifyouwant.”Graciela paused, her hand holding the wand. “You seem a little

nervous.”

Inanyothersituation,Janinewouldhavethought,Thiswomaniskind. But although Graciela might still be a lovely human being, itdidn’t change the fact that she had made the choice to work at anabortionfactory.Itwasn’tlikeyoucouldgetprenatalcarehere,ifyouwanted it.The lastundercoverspy thatAllenhadsent into theclinichadwornglasseswithatinycamerainthebridgeofthenose,andshehadvideoofthisverywomansayingno,theydidnotofferpregnancycare,butcouldreferhertoaplacethatdid.Theyreallyshouldn’tcallthemselvesa reproductivehealthcarecenter if theyweren’twilling tohelpwomenreproduce.

Once, she had been in a clinic like this, not as a spy but as apatient. Did she have an ultrasound there? Why couldn’t sheremember?

ItwasnotuntilGracielahandedher aKleenex that she realizedshewas crying. “Are you nervous?That I can fix,” the socialworkersaid.“But ifyou’recryingbecauseyoudon’tknowifyou’vemadetherightdecision…thatIcan’thelpyouwith.”

Janine thought of the voice recording in her pocket, closed hereyes, and prayed for something to happen—anything—that mightincriminateGraciela,beforeJaninewasincriminatedherself.

—

FIFTEENWEEKS WAS THE TRICKIEST.When Louie had a patient come infifteenweekspregnant,heknewhewasinforachallenge.Thefetus’sbones would have just started to calcify, so it would have to bedisarticulated.ThewayLouieexplaineditwasthattheuteruswaslikeanicecreamcone.ImagineyouhadanOreoatthetopandneededtogetitthroughthebottomofthecone;ofcourseyouhadtobreakitintoparts. In Mississippi, there was an additional wrinkle: by law, youcouldnotuseforcepswhileafetusstillhadaheartbeat.Thislawwaspassed by nonscientists who believed that fetuses at sixteen weekscould feel pain—which they could not. But as a result of politicalposturing,Louiehadtoamendhisprocedure,addingextrastepsthatmight causemore risk to thepatient, insteadofdoingwhatwasbestforher.

ThatmeantLouiewouldstartwithanultrasound.Cytoteccausedsustaineduterine contractions,whichmeant thatmost of the fetuses

wouldbeasystolicduetotheconstantsqueezing.Butifthatwasn’tthecase—iftherestillwasaheartbeatvisibleontheultrasound—itwasuptoLouietousesuctiontobringtheumbilicalcorddownandtransectittoendcardiacactivity.

Louietoldthepatientnoneofthis.

HelookedatJoyPerry,whowashisprimaryconcernforthenextquarterofanhour.Likeallhisfifteen-andsixteen-weekpatients,shewasthefirstandlastprocedureoftheday.ShehadcomeearlyfortheCytotec—eighthundredmicrogramsinpillform—whichwereinsertedbyhim,vaginally,tomakethecervixpliable.

Now shewas lying back, her pale hair in a ponytail that spilledover the edge of the procedure table, like the tassels on hisgrandmama’sbrocadecurtains.Hemethergazethroughthevalleyofherbentknees.“Thisisgoingtotakeaboutsevenminutes,”Louiesaid.“We’regonnagetyouthrough.”

HeglancedatHarriet,hisnursedujour.He’dworkedwithHarrietlongenoughtohaveashorthandwithher,buttruthbetold,LouieflewtosevendifferentclinicsthroughouttheSouthandPlainsstatesandhewas used to working with a rotating panel of RNs and nursepractitioners. They were all exceptional, standing by the side of thewomen on his procedure table; providing him with a syringe oflidocainewhenheneededitandagentlewhisperofsupportwhenhispatientdid.AflickofLouie’seyestotheright,andHarriettookJoy’shandinherownandsqueezed.

Hetouchedherknee.

“Wait!” Joy cried, and Louie lifted his hand immediately, fivefingersoutstretched.“I…Ididn’tshave…”shemurmured.

Louie stifled a grin. If he had a dime for every time he’d heardthat.Heknewwhatitwasliketobeinthedentist’schairandwonderifyou had a booger in your nose; he understood what it was to be apatient, and vulnerable. Time to administer some vocal local. InMississippi,hewasn’tallowedtogiveanynarcotics—notevenXanax—torelaxapatient.

“Now,MizHarriet,”hesaid,inanexaggeratedtone.“Didn’tItellyounottobringmeanymoreladieswhodidn’tgetaBrazilianbeforecominghere?”

Hesawit—thetinycrackofagrinonJoy’sface.

“You’regoingtofeelalittlepressure.”Louiepressedtheinsideofthepatient’sthigh.“Justlikethat.I’mgonnaputthespeculuminsidenow;yourelaxthatmuscle.Thereyougo.Whereyoufrom?”

“Oxford.”

“That’s a hike.” When Louie chatted through the procedure, hewasn’t trivializing. He was normalizing the moment, putting it intocontext.Hewanted thewoman toknow this abortionwasa sliverofherlife,andnotthebenchmarkuponwhichsheshouldjudgeherself.

As he yammered about the best way to get from Oxford toJackson,LouiewrappedaballofgauzeonthetenaculumandswabbedJoy’scervixwithBetadine.Harriet,hispartnerinthisdance,smoothlyheld up the lidocaine vial while he filled the syringe. “Little pinchcoming. Giveme a cough now.” As Joy coughed, Louie grabbed theedge of the cervix with the tenaculum and injected the lidocaine atseveral spots around the ring of tissue. He felt the muscles of herthighs tense. “You know peoplewho can cough on demand can alsofakethings?Didyouusedtofaketearstogetyourmamanottospankyou?”Louieasked.

Joyshookherhead.

“Well,Iusedtodothat.Workedeverytime.”Hereachedtohisleftforoneof themetaldilationrods,and inserted it into thecervixandthenout.Thenaslightlylargerone,andanotherafterthat,allthewayupto15millimeters,asthecervixopenedliketheshutterofacamera.“SowereyouborninOxford?”

“No,Yazoo.”

“Yazoo,”Louiesaid.“That’stheplacewiththewitch.”Sometimeshe thought he knew more about the states where he performedabortions than their own residents did.He had to, formoments likethis.

“Thewhat?”Sheflinched.

“You’redoinggreat,Joy.TherewassomeswampwitchwholivedinYazooduringtheeighteenhundreds.Youreallyneverheardabouther?” Louie asked. “You’re gonna feel fluid now; that’s normal.” Heruptured her membranes and leaned back as a gush of blood andamniotic fluid spilled between her legs into the tray beneath. Some

splattered on his sneaker. “She died in quicksand, I guess,when thepolicewere afterher? Just before shepassed, she vowed she’d comeback in twenty years to haunt the town and burn it to the ground.”Louieglancedup.“A littlepullingnow.Justbreathe.All I’mdoing ismaneuvering around inside youruterus, andusing theultrasound toguideme.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched Joy’s fingers graspHarriet’smorefirmly.Hebenthishead,intentonhiswork,takingthefetus out with forceps. He pulled out clots of pink tissue, somerecognizable,somenot.Atthisstageofpregnancy,thecalvariumwasjustsolidenoughtonotcollapsewithsuction.Ifitgotupintothehighcorneroftheuterus,ithadatendencytorollaroundlikeabeachball.Inwiththeforceps,outagain.Aminiaturehand.Aknee.Inandout;inandout.TheGclefofaspine.Thesquash-blossomcalvarium.

“Anyway,twentyyearslater,in1900,therewasafreakfireinthetown that burned a hundredbuildings and twohundredhomes.Thetownspeoplewenttothegraveoftheswampwitch,andsureenough,thetombstonewasbrokenandthechainaroundhergravewasalltornup.Spookyashell,right?Now,justanotherminute…”

Louieknewexactlywhatitmeanttodisruptalifeprocess.Atfiveweeks,he’dseenothingbuta tinysac.Atsixweeks,a fetalpolewithcardiac activity—but no limbbuds, no thorax, no calvarium.By nineweeks,thereweredifferentiatedbodyparts:tinyarms,tinyhands,theblack spotof anemergingeye.At the fifteen-weekmark, like today’sprocedure, the calvarium had to be crushed to fit through a 15-millimetercannula.Asaprovider,youcouldnotunfeelthatmoment.Andyet.Wasitaperson?No.Itwasapieceoflife,butsowasasperm,anegg.Iflifebeganatconception,whataboutallthoseeggsandspermthatdidn’tbecomebabies?Whatabout the fertilizedeggs thatdidn’timplant?Ortheonesthatdid,ectopically?Whataboutthezygotethatfailedtothrivewhenimplantedandwassloughedoffwiththeuterinelining?Wasthatadeath?

Up till twenty-two weeks of pregnancy a fetus wouldn’t survivewithoutahost,evenonarespirator.Betweentwenty-twoandtwenty-five weeks, a fetus might live briefly, with severe brain and organdamage. The American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologistsdid not recommend resuscitating babies born at twenty-threeweeks.At twenty-fourweeks, itwasup to theparentsanddoctors todecide

together. At twenty-five weeks, the American Medical Associationsuggestedresuscitation,butalsosaidthattheabilitytosurvivewasnotasurething.Therewereplentyofbabiesdiagnosedlateinthesecondtrimester with anomalies that were incompatible with life. If thosebabieswerebornpast twenty-nineweeks, theywould feelpainwhenthey died. In those cases, was abortion murder, or mercy? If youdecidedthiswasanexceptionalcase,whatabout if themotherwasaheroinaddict?What ifherhusbandbeather sobadshebrokebonesseveraltimesayear?Wasitethicalforthatwomantocarryababytoterm?

He got it, he really did. In that boggymess of blood and tissuewere recognizable parts. They were familiar enough to be upsetting.Thebottom linewas this: a zygote, an embryo, a fetus, a baby—theywere all human. But at what point did that human deserve legalprotection?

“We’reinthehomestretchnow.”Louieturnedonthesuctionandsweptthecannulaalongtheuterus.“Youneverheardthatstory?”

Sheshookherhead.

“AndyoucallyourselfaYazooite!”Louiejoked.“WhatdopeoplefromYazoocallthemselves?”

“Cursed,”Joysaid.

He laughed. “I knew I liked you.” Louie felt for the familiargrittinessoftheuterinewallthatlethimknowhewasdone.

Whetherornotyoubelievedafetuswasahumanbeing,therewasnoquestion inanyone’smind that a grownwomanwas one.Even ifyouplacedmoralvalueonthatfetus,youcouldn’tgiveitrightsunlessthey were stripped away from the woman carrying it. Perhaps thequestionwasn’tWhendoesafetusbecomeaperson?butWhendoesawomanstopbeingone?

Louieglanceddownatthetissueinthetraybetweenhispatient’slegs. The contents of the tray were swirled and amorphous, like agalaxy without stars. It was part of his job as a physician—if all theproductsofconceptioncouldn’tbeaccountedfor,thentherewouldbeinfection later. It was also philosophically important to him as anabortionprovidertorecognizetheprocedureforwhatitwas,insteadofusing euphemisms. He finished his silent count of limbs andlandmarks.HecouldfeelJoy’swombstartingtoshrinkbackdown.

Hestoodsothathecouldlookhispatientintheeye,soshewouldknowhehadseenher—notjustasapatient,butasthewomanshewasandwouldbewhenshewalkedoutthatdoor.“You,”hetoldJoy,“arenolongerpregnant.”

Thewomanclosedhereyes.“Thankyou,”shemurmured.

Louiegentlypattedherknee.“MizJoy,”hesaidsimply,“youdon’thavetobegratefulforsomethingthat’syourright.”

—

HOW WAS IT, JOY WONDERED, that she was ending a pregnancy andtalking about ghosts?Maybe it wasn’t all that far off themark. Sheknewtherewereallsortsofthingsthatcouldcomebacktohauntyou.

Shefeltcramping,andshewinced.Shecouldstillhearthewhirofthemachine that did the suction. It seemed like anoversight; surelytheycouldhavegivenherheadphones,likethekindtheyhadonplanesthatcanceledoutallthenoise?Orpipedinheavymetalmusic,sothatyouwouldn’thavetoliehereandlistentothesoundofyourpregnancyending?

Maybethatwasthepoint—theydidn’twanttomakeiteasy.Theywantedyoudoingthiswithyoureyes(andyourlegs)wideopen.

JoystaredattheceilingataWhere’sWaldo?poster,wheretherewereathousandpenguinswearingredandwhitescarvesandoneloneguy ina stripedhat.Whywouldyou try to findWaldo?Let thepoorguystaylost.

The suction was a choke, a throttle, a throat clearing. Littlevacuum,Joythought.Cleaninguphermess.

H

Ninea.m.

UGHWASPAINTINGWITHWATER.THAT’SWHATHECALLEDPOLICEworkthatwasnotonlypainfullyboringbutultimatelyacompletewaste

of time.Today, itwasprocessinga2010ToyotaRAV4thathadbeentaken for a joyride after its owner, a college kid, left the keys in theignition.Ithadbeenfoundoffthesideoftheroad,dentedandreekingofpot.Christ,youdidn’thavetobeadetectivetofigureoutwhathadhappenedhere;ortorealizethattheamountoftimethatHughspentprocessing the car and the scene—a dusty ditch off the side of thehighway—was going to exceed the value of the check the insurancecompanywouldeventuallysendtheownerforrepairs.Whowantedtospendhisfortiethbirthdaygettingthefingerprintsoffastolenvehicle?He sighed as he attempted to dust the interior. It never worked,becauseofthetextureofthedashboard,butifhedidn’tdoit,he’dbetold he had overlooked evidence. He’d already photographed thevehicle360degreesandalso takenpicturesof the tracks in thegrassmadeby the tires.Hehadnotedhow far back the seatwas reclined,whatstationtheradiowastunedto,whatdetrituslivedintheconsole.Later today,hewouldhave thedubioushonorofcontacting thecar’sownerandgivinghimthislist—gum,Kindbar,waterbottle,keychain,baseball cap, receipts fromaPigglyWiggly, junkmail—and then askthe guy what else was missing. Hugh would bet his house that theownerwouldn’tbeabletoanswer.Therewasn’tapersononearthwhocould accurately catalog the contents of their console and glovecompartment.

Hestoodup,feelinghimselfsweatbeneaththecollarofhisshirt.Hewassupposedtocanvasstheareatoseewhomighthaveheardorseen something, but he was literally sixmiles from the nearest exit,andtheonlyvisibleevidenceofhumanitywasagiantConfederateflagthat snapped in thewind across the highway, towering over the treelineasareminderorathreat,dependingonyourpolitics.Hughsethishands on his hips and jutted his chin toward the flag. “Well?” hedemandedoutloud.“Wouldyouliketogiveaneyewitnessreport?”

Deciding that he’d done due diligence,Hugh started back to hisowncar.Hehadtoburnallthesestupidphotostodiskanddoashittonofpaperworknow.True,nothingwasgoingtocomeofthiscase—they’dneverfindthethieves—butevenifitsucked,hewasgoingtodotherightthing.ThismantrawasasmuchaspartofHughashisheightorhishair color orhis lineage.True, thishadnotbeenhis intendedcareerpath,butthenhe’dmetAnnabelleandthey’dgottenpregnant.SomehowinsteadoftrackingthemovementsofthestarsatNASA,hehad wound up tracking the movements of the residents of Jackson,Mississippi. He had watched Columbo, like every other kid in theeighties,anddetectiveworkhadseemedanexcitingbackupplan.Well,the joke was on Hugh—he wasn’t thwarting jewel heists, he wasdustingforfingerprintsonagascap.

Hiscellphonebuzzed inhispocket,andheanswered, thinking itmightbetheownerofthevehicle.He’dleftamessagethatmorningforthekid.“McElroy,”hesaid.

“Hugh.”

Hiseyesclosed.He’dconjuredAnnabelle,justbythinkingofher.“You weren’t who I was expecting,” he said, and in the silence thatfollowed,heturnedovertheimplicationsofthatsentence.

Her voice sounded like filigree, delicate and irreplicable, with ahintofaFrenchaccentthathesupposedwascultivatedafteryearsofliving in a foreign country. “I wasn’t going to forget your fortieth,”Annabellesaid.“Howareyou?”

He lookedaroundathis surroundings—the loomingConfederateflag,thetrampledknee-highgrass,thescrapedanddentedcar.Insteadofgivingananswerevenhewouldn’twanttohear,heturnedhisbackaway from thehighway. “What time is it there?”he asked, squintingintothesun.

Shelaughed.God,he’dlovedthatsound.Herememberedplayingthe fool, sometimes—leaving a shaving creammustache intentionallyonhisupperlipwhenhecamedownstairsinthemorning—justtohearit. When had he stopped making her smile? “It’s quitting time,”Annabellesaid.

“Luckyyou.”Therewasabubbleofsilence.Amazing,tothinkthatshewassofaraway,andhecouldstillhearthehesitationinhervoice.“Howisshe?”

Hughexhaled.“She’sgood.”

Annabelle had agreed to give him custody ofWren because, shesaid,thatwayWrencouldbeascomfortableaspossible.Ifherparentsweresplittingup,atleastshegottostayathomewithherfriendsandher father.Hughhad always believed that hermagnanimous gesturewasaresultofguilt:sheknewshehadcheated;asaconsolationprize,sheleftHughthebestpartoftheirmarriage.

“Areyouhappy,Hugh?”Annabelleasked.

Heforcedalaugh.“Whatkindofquestionisthat?”

“Idon’tknow.AParisianone.Anexistentialone.”

He imaginedherwithher long redhair, awaterfall thatused toslipthroughhishands.Hecouldstillseeherfacewhenheclosedhiseyes—thepaleeyebrowsshehaddarkenedwithapencil, thewayhereyesdartedleftwhenshelied;howshebitherlowerlipwhenhemadelovetoher.Whenyoulostsomeone,howmuchtimehadtopassbeforethe details began to fade? Or at least the feeling that you had anunfinished edge that might unravel at any moment, until you werenothingmore thana tangleof thepersonyouusedtobe?“Youdon’thavetoworryaboutme,”Hughsaid.

“Of course I do,” Annabelle replied, “because you’re too busyworryingabouteveryoneelse.”

Therewere seventy-five hundredmiles between themandHughfeltclaustrophobic.“Igottago.”

“Oh. Of course,” Annabelle said quickly. “It’s good to hear yourvoice,Hugh.”

“You, too. I’ll tellWren you called,” he promised, although theyboth knew he wouldn’t. The relationship between Wren and hermother was more complicated than the one between him andAnnabelle. He felt the way he did when he misplaced somethingimportant—a little angry at himself, a little frustrated.Wren felt likeshe’dbeentheimportantthingthatwasmisplaced.

“Take care of yourself,” Hugh said, his subtle way ofacknowledging thathernew lover couldn’tdoagood jobof that andshewasonherown.

Hehungup,savoringhissmallandlovelyvictoryofasentence.

—

ATPRECISELY9:01A.M.Wrenpoppedoutofherchairandwalkedup toMs. Beckett, the health teacher. Everyone was taking a test thatinvolved labeling the parts of the male and female reproductivesystems—withpointstakenoffifyouspelledfallopianorvasdeferenswrong.Ms.Beckettwasprettycool,as teacherswent.Shewasyoungandhadmarriedthehotgymteacher,Mr.Hanlon,lastyear.AlthoughMs.Becketthadn’tofficiallytoldanyoneyet,itwasclearfromherever-looseningwardrobeofjumpersandcaftansthatshewasgoingtoneeda long-term sub in a fewmonths while she was onmaternity leave.Therewasapoeticjusticetothat,Wrenthought—asexedteacherwhohadgottenpregnant.

Itwas alsowhy sheknew that if shewalkedup toMs.Beckett’sdeskandtoldherthetruth—sheneededtoleaveschooltogetthePill—theteacherwouldprobablyhavecoveredWren’stracksforher.Butitwasn’tlikecontraceptionwasavalidexcuseforgettingoutofclass,soshe did the next best thing when Ms. Beckett looked up from hercomputer. She screwed her face into a grimace of abject pain andwhispered,“Cramps.”

Themagic word. Thirty seconds later, she was walking throughtheschoolwithapasstothenurse.Exceptinsteadofturningrighttogo to the nurse’s office shemade an abrupt left andwalked out thedoorneartheforeignlanguagewing,lettingthehotsunscaldher.Shereachedforherphoneandtexted,andtensecondslater,AuntBex’scarpulleduptothecurb.Wrenyankedopenthedoorandslippedintothepassenger seat just as one of the school safety officers rounded thecornerofthebuilding.“Go,”sheurged.“Go,go!”

AuntBex screamedaway from the curb. “Lord,” she said, ashertiressquealed.“IfeellikeThelmaandLouise.”

Wrenturnedtoherblankly.“Who?”

“MyGod, youmakeme feel like a dinosaur.”AuntBex laughed.She reached behind her, fumbling around the backseat until shegrabbedapaperbag,whichshedroppedintoWren’slap.Wrendidn’tevenhavetoopenittoknowitwasdonuts.

Shesupposedthatitwasmomentslikethiswhenitpaidtohaveamotheraround.Buttobehonest,hermomwassoextra, living inanartists’communeorsomethingintheMaraisandgettingpiercingsin

placeswhere not evenWrenwouldwant them. Aunt Bexwasn’t thenextbestthing.Shewasbetter.

Wrenslouchedintheseatandputherfeetonthedashboard.

“Don’tdothat,”AuntBexsaidautomatically,althoughitwashardtoimaginehowthisoldbeaterofacarcouldbedamagedinanywaybythe footprint ofWren’s shoe. There were paint rags on the backseatand empty buckets anddust from stretched canvases and everythingsmelledalittleliketurpentine.

“Goahead,”Wrensaid.

“Goahead?”

“Givemethelecture.Whatisityoualwayssay?Afreelunchisn’teverreallyfree.”

Aunt Bex shook her head. “Nope. This lunch has no stringsattached.”

Wren sat up, tilting her head. “Really?” Her aunt was the onlypersonwhoseemedtounderstandyoucouldn’tschedulewhenyoufellinlove,likeitwasadoctor’sappointment.“AuntBex,”Wrenblurted,“howcomeyounevergotmarried?”

Herauntshrugged.“I’msurethestoryyou’rehopingforismuchmoreromanticthanthetruth.I justdidn’t, that’sall.”Sheglancedinherniece’sdirection.“I’mnot takingyouheretodaybecauseofsomeunrequited love of my own,” Bex said. “I’m taking you because I’dratheryouhavethePillthananabortion.”

Wren reached into the paper bag and took a bite of her donut.“HaveItoldyouIloveyou?”

Herauntraisedabrow.“BecauseI’mtakingyoutotheCenter,orbecauseIgotyouchocolatecrème?”

Wrengrinned.“Canitbeboth?”sheasked.

—

WHENOLIVEWENTTOKISSPeggoodbye,shefoundherwifeunderneaththe sink trying to fix the trash disposal. She took in the sight for amoment, admiring the wriggle of Peg’s hips and the swell of herbreastsasshereacheduptodosomethingtoapipe.Hell,shemightbeold,butshewasn’tdead.Yet.

“How did I get so lucky?” she mused out loud. “Marrying aplumber.Andahotoneatthat.”

“Youmarriedanengineerwithplumbingskills.”Peg slippedoutfromthecabinet.“Andahotone,atthat.”

Peggrinnedupather.Olivewanted tomemorizeeverydetailoftheir life together: the chip in Peg’s front tooth, the lip of pink sockpeeking out from her tennis shoe. The orange juice sweating on thecounter,andthenewelpostofthebanisterthatfelloffitsperchweeklynomatterhowmuchwoodgluetheyused.Thescatterofpensnearthephone,tossedlikerunes,thatwerealloutofink.Therewassuchartintheordinary,itcouldleaveyouintears.

“Whereareyouofftotodaysoearly,anyway?”Pegasked,stickingherheadbackunderneaththesink.

Olive hadn’t told Peg about going to the oncologist’s office lastweek; she had hid the file with the confusion of numbers and testsunderneath the mattress, where Peg wouldn’t find it. It was tuckedinsideherpursenow,forthenurseattheCentertointerpret.ButdidOlive really need the translation? She knew, even if she neededsomeoneelsetosayittomakeittrue.“Acheckup.Nobigdeal.”

Oliveheardthethroatygrowlof thedisposal,andPeg’sarpeggioof laughter. God, she had danced to the music of that laugh for adecadenow.Shefeltlikeanexplorermovingthroughaworldshehadalwaysknown, chargedwith cataloging theminutiaeof the common,the grooves of the routine, just in case a thousand years from nowsomeoneelsewantedtoseethingsexactlyastheyhadlookedthroughhereyes.ThewayherhandslippedseamlesslyintoPeg’sinthedarkofamovie theater when they didn’t have to worry if anyonemight beshockedbytwooldwomeninlove;thelongsilverhair,coiledintotheshapeofinfinityintheshowerdrain;thecool,possessivestampofherkiss.

What shewouldmisswere thesedetails. Shewondered if,whenyou left thisworld,yougot to takeacertainnumberof themdeep inyourpockets,clenchedinyourfists,ortuckedhighontheroofofyourmouth,withyouforever.

—

WHENLOUIEWASN’TPERFORMINGABORTIONS,hewasteachingnewdoctorshow to do them.He was an associate professor at the University of

HawaiiandBostonUniversity.Hestartedhissemestersthesameway,tellingthestudentsthatoverfivethousandyearsago,inancientChina,mercury was used to induce abortions (although it most likely alsokilled the women). The Ebers Papyrus from 1500 B.C. mentionedabortions. He showed a slide of a bas relief from the year 1150decoratingthetempleofAngkorWatinCambodia,whereawomanintheunderworldwasgettinganabortionatthehandsofademon.

He told his medical students that Aristophanes mentionedpennyroyalteaasanabortifacient—justfivegramsofitcouldbetoxic.That Pliny the Elder said if a woman didn’t want a pregnancy, shecould step over a viper or ingest rue. Hippocrates suggested that awomanwhowanted tomiscarry jump and hit herself on the bottomwith her heels until the embryo released and fell out; if that didn’twork,therewasalwaysamixtureofmousedung,honey,Egyptiansalt,resin, and wild colocynth that you could insert into the uterus. ASanskrit manuscript from the eighth century recommended sittingoverapotofboilingwateror steamingonions.ScribonisLargus, thecourt doctor for Emperor Claudius, had a recipe that includedmandrake root, opium, Queen Anne’s lace, opopanax, and peppers.Tertullian,theChristiantheologian,describedinstrumentsthatmatchthe ones used today for a D& E and saidHippocrates, Asclepiades,Erasistratus,Herophilus,andSoranusallemployedthem.

Abortionhadbeenaround,Louietoldthem,sincethebeginningoftime.

“Igotanewoneforyou,Dr.Ward,”Vonitasaidashewanderedintothereceptionareaduringafive-minutebreak.“Tansy.”

“Sheapatient?”

Vonitalaughed.“No,it’sanherb.Oraflowerorsomething.ItwasusedintheMiddleAgestoabort.”

Hegrinned.“Where’dyoulearnthat?”

“Readingoneofmyromancenovels,”shesaid.

“Ididn’tthinkromancenovelscoveredthattopic.”

“Well,whatelseyouthinkisgonnahappenwithallthatsex?”

He laughed. Vonitawas one of his favorite people in theworld.She had run the clinic since 1989, when the previous owner hadretired. She painted it orange because she wanted it to stand out

proud, likeithadonitsbestSundayclothes.VonitahadgrownupinSilver Grove, cinched tight in the Bible Belt, and her mama was adevout Baptist.WhenVonita opened the clinic, the church here hadcontactedhermamatoletherknowwhatherwaywarddaughterwasdoing.VonitaJean, hermother had said on the telephone,don’t tellmeyou’reopeninganabortionclinic.

Then,Mama,don’taskme,Vonitahadreplied.

“HowbusyamIgonnabetoday?”Louieasked.

“DoIlooklikeacrystalball?”

“Youlooklikethepersonwhodoesthescheduling.”

Shegrunted.“Well.Ihopeyouateabigbreakfasttoday,’causeitmayalsobeyourlunch.”

Louiegrinned.Itwouldbebusy;itwasalwaysbusy.He’dalreadystarted his first case, in fact, a woman in her second trimester whoneededhercervixsoftenedbeforetheprocedure.She’dbethefirstandthe last patient he saw thatmorning. Thewaiting room already hadwomen in itwhowerehere for their counseling sessions,whowouldcome back tomorrow for their procedures. They came fromNatchezandTupeloandfromaroundthecorner.TheycamefromAlligatorandSatartiaandStarkvilleandWiggins.Therewere48,000squaremilesofMississippi and thiswas theonly clinic atwhichyou couldget anabortion.Youmighthavetodrivefivehourstogetthere,andofcourse,you had to wait twenty-four hours between counseling and theprocedure, which meant more travel expenses that many desperatewomen couldn’t afford. Vonita had on speed dial the names ofbenefactorsandorganizationsshecouldcallwhenawomanshowedupwho didn’t have money for lunch or bus fare home, much less aprocedure.Andthentherewerethewomenwhohadtobereferredtoother states, because the Center only performed abortions up tosixteenweeks.

Vonitawasemptyingoneof theblessingbags that theprotestershandedouttothepatients,whooften—bewildered—turnedtheminatthe receptiondesk. “I’vegot three setsofbooties,” she said, “but I’mholdingoutforalittlehat.”Sheglancedup.“YoudotheCytotec?”

“Ididindeed,”Louiereplied.

Vonita held up a little hand-printed card from the blessing bag.

“DefundPlannedParenthood,” she read. “You think theyknowwe’renotaPlannedParenthood?”

Itwas likeusing thewordXerox insteadofcopymachine. Plus,federal funds already were legally prohibited from being used forabortions. They covered gynecological care; abortions were self-funding. In fact, they were the only procedure reproductive healthservicesclinicsofferedthatdidn’toperateataloss.

IfPlannedParenthoodwasdefunded,itwouldn’tstopabortions.Abortionswouldliterallybetheonlythingstheycouldaffordtodo.

SometimesLouiefeltliketheyonlyexistedinrelationtotheantis.Iftheyalldisappeared,wouldhegoupinapuffofsmoke?Couldyoustandforsomethingiftherewasn’tanopposition?

HewatchedVonitasweepthecontentsof theblessingbag intoatrashcan.“Ladies,who’swaitingonlabs?”Apepperingofhandswentup.VonitapressedabuttononherphoneandsummonedHarriet tocomeget thenextwaveofpatients for theirblood tests.Shedid thisfluidly and seamlessly; itwas likewatching a conductor raise beautyfromthediscordofanorchestra.

“Hey, Vonita,” Louie said, “you ever think about taking avacation?”

Shedidn’tevensparehimaglance.“I’lltakeonewhenyoudo,Dr.Ward.”Thephonerang,andsheansweredit,alreadydismissinghim.“Yes,honey,”Vonitasaid.“You’vegottherightplace.”

—

INASMALLBANKOFchairsbesidethelab,Joysatwithherearbudsfirmlyjammedintoherears,listeningtoherDisneyplaylistwhiletheCytotecdiditsworkinsideher.Itwouldtakeafewhoursbeforehercervixwassoftenoughtobedilated,whichmeantthatshewouldbeintheCenterforawhile,whileotherwomencameandwent.

She shifted, slipping a crumpled picture out of her pocket.Yesterday, she had been one of a dozenwomen here for counseling,getting labs done and listening to Vonita walk through the formsrequiredbythestateandhearingDr.Wardtalkabouttheprocedure.Shehadalsobeenaskedtogiveaurinesample,andhadanultrasound.AwomannamedGracielahadbeentheonewhoperformedit;shehadhairthatreachedpastherhips,andeventhoughhervoicewassoft,she

wasspeakingbyrote.“Weareobligatedtoofferyoutheopportunitytolisten to the fetal heartbeat and to see the sonogram,” Graciela toldher,andtoJoy’ssurprise,sheheardherselfsayyes.Thenshestartedtosob.Shecriedforherowndumbluck,forherloneliness.Shecriedbecauseeventhoughshehadtakeneveryprecautionpossible,shehadwoundup—likehermother—boxedintobadchoicesbecauseofaman.

Graciela had handed her a tissue and then squeezed her hands.“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, breaking from thescript.Although shewasn’t talkingabout theultrasound, sheput thewandbackinitscradle.

“I’msure,”Joysaid.Butshedidn’tknowifshebelievedit.Peeingonastickwasnotseeingafetusonasonogram.“Iwanttoseeit,”shetoldGraciela.

SoGracielasquirtedgelontoherswollenbellyandranthewandover her skin, and abracadabra, a silver fish swam onto the littlescreen.Itmorphedintoacircle,acurve,thenafetalshape.

“Can I …” Joy said, and then she swallowed. “Can I have apicture?”

“You bet,” Graciela replied. She pushed a button, and a littleprintout curled from the machine. Black and white, in profile. ShehandedittoJoy.

“YoumustthinkI’mcrazy,”Joymurmured.

Graciela shookherhead. “You’dbe surprisedhowmanywomenwantone.”

Joy hadnot knownwhat to dowith the ultrasoundpicture. Sheonlyknewshecouldnotleavewithoutit.Shedidn’twanttofolditintoher tiny wallet, and yesterday she had been wearing pants withoutpockets. So she had slipped it into her bra, over her heart. She toldherself that when she got home later, she would crumple it up andthrowitaway.

Shestillhaditwithhertoday.

—

BETHFELTLIKESHEWASswimmingupfromthebottomofadeeppool,andeverytimeshetriedtoseetherunnyyolkofthesun,itseemedtoget farther away. Then suddenly she surfaced in a rush of noise and

activity.Shewasdizzyanddry-mouthedwhenhereyespoppedopen.Wherethehellwasshe?

Sheslippedahandunderneaththeblanketthatwascoveringherand touched her belly, then lower, to the bulk of a pad in herunderwear.Awareness struckher,onedropat a time,until suddenlyshewas soaked in the truth: theyhad askedher if shewaspregnantandshe’dsaidno,and itdidn’t squeezeherheart tosay itbecause itwasn’ta lie.Butstill, theyhaddoneaurinetestandabloodtestandhadrubbedanultrasoundwandoverherbelly,asiftheydidn’tbelieveher. The last thing Beth remembered was looking up at the uglyfluorescent lights on the ceiling, and then she didn’t rememberanythingatall.

Shetriedtospeak,butshehadtodigdeepertofindhervoice,andwhenitcameoutitdidn’tsoundlikehersatall.“Daddy?”sherasped.

Thenhewas leaningoverher,hiswarmhandsonher shoulder,her arm. “Hi, baby girl,” he said. He smiled down at her, and shenoticed the deep lines that bracketed hismouth, like a parentheticalstatementoffear.Histempleshadbrownagespotsshehadneverseenbefore.Whenhadhegottenold,andwhyhadn’tshenoticed?

“WhereamI?”

Hesmoothedherhairawayfromherface.“You’reatthehospital.You’regoingtobefine,honey.Youjustrest.”

“Whathappened?”

He lookeddown at the floor. “Youwere… losing a lot of blood.You needed a transfusion. Whatever it is, baby, we’re going to getthroughthistogether.”

Bethwished that couldbe true.Shewished, ina crazyway, thatthe doctorwould comeback and tell her she had a rare and terriblecancer,becausethatwouldalmostbeeasiertohearthanthefactthatshehaddisappointedherfather.

He reached over, averting his eyes, tugging her hospital johnnymorefirmlybehindhertotuckitin.“Don’tneedtogiveafreeshow,”hemurmured.

Shehad read somewhere that the victims of the Inquisitionhadbeenmadetopayfortheirownpunishments,theirownimprisonment.Toescapedeath,theyhadtoofferupthenamesofotherswhodidnot

believe Jesus Christ was God. Whether or not they were actuallyinnocenthadnothingtodowiththeprocess.Bethtookadeepbreath.“Daddy,”shebegan,andjustthenthenursecameintotheroom.

She was round everywhere—cheeks, butt, boobs, belly—and shesmelled like cinnamon. Beth remembered, hazily, that face leaningdownoverherown.I’mJayla,I’myournurse,andI’mgoingtotakecareofyou,understand?“It’sabouttime,”herfathersaid.“Itcan’tbenormal,thatmuchblood,from…there.Ismydaughtergoingtobeallright?”

JaylalookedfromBethtoherfather.“MaybeIcouldtalktoBethprivately?”

Thatwas the instant thatBethunderstoodherDayofJudgmenthad come, her moment before the Grand Inquisitor. But her fatherdidn’t know this, and so he interpreted her sudden stiffness as fearinsteadoffatalism.“Youcantalktousboth.She’sonlyseventeen.”Herfathergrippedherhand,asifhecouldbethestrengthforwhateverbadnewswasabouttobedelivered.

Was itBeth’s imagination,ordidJayla’seyes softenas theymethers,asifshecouldcouchtheimpactofherwords?“Beth,yourtestscameback.Didyouknowyouwerepregnant?”

“No,”shewhispered—asyllablethatwasmaybealieandmaybeadenialofwhatwassurelyabouttohappen.

Bethcouldnotlookherfatherinhereye.Heliftedherhand,andforabreathlessmoment she thought that shehadbeenwrongabouthim,thathewouldstandbyherorforgiveherorboth.Butinsteadhetuggeduntilshecouldfeelhisthumbrubbingoverthethinridgeofthesilverpromiseringhehadboughtherforherfourteenthbirthday,theonethatwassupposedtosignifythatshe’dstaypureuntilherweddingnight.“Areyou…didyou…?”

The nurse murmured something and slipped out through thecurtainsofthecubicle.Bethhardlyevennoticed.Shewassomewhereelse—behindaplayingfield,underthebleachers,withstarsoverheadthat spelled out the answers to questions she was afraid to ask outloud:ShouldI…?Whatifhe…?Couldthisbe…?

Yes.Yes.Yes.

Foronenight,shehadbeenworshipped.Aboyhadlitfiresinside

her inplacesshehadnotknowncouldburn.Hehadprayedwithhishands and his mouth and his promises, and she hadmade a singlemistake: she had put her faith in him. Even after everything he haddone, shehad turned thememoryof thatnightoverandover inherminduntilitwassosmoothandpolisheditwasnolongeranirritatinggrainofsand,butapearl.

Shehad to see it thatway, because if itwasn’t rare and special,thenshewasanevengreaterfool.

Butherfatherwouldn’tthinkthat.Shehadbelievedthatnothingcould everhurtmore than themoment she realizedJohnSmithwasnotarealname,thatshehadwillinglygivenawaysomethingshecouldnevergetback—notjusthervirginity,butherpride.Butthis,thiscutmoredeeply—thelookonherfather’sfacewhenherealizedBethwasdamagedgoods.“Please,Daddy,”shebegged.“Itwasn’tmyfault—”

Heseizedonthatescapehatch.“Thenwhodidthistoyou?Whohurtyou?”

ShepicturedJohn’slipsgrazingtheinsideofherthigh,hismouthclosingoverher.“Noone,”shesaidsoftly.

Herfatherclenchedhisfists.“I’llkillhim.Iwillkillhimforlayingahandonyou.”Hiswordswerefullofanglesandedges.“Who.Is.He.”

Foramoment,Bethalmost laughed.Goodluckfindinghim, shethought.ButinsteadofdirectingherfuryatwhoeverJohnSmithwas,sheturnedthefullforceofherblazeonherfatherinstead.“ThisiswhyIcouldn’ttellyou.”Herownvoicescaredherwithitstrueandperfectaim. “It’swhy Iwent to the clinic in the first place. Because Iknewyou’dbelikethis.”

Her anger shook the curtains. Her fingernails bit into her ownpalms.Shewasahydra.Herfatherhadcutherdown,andsomethingtwiceasstronghadgrowninitsplace.

Somewhere,distantly,Bethrealizedthatithadnotbeensleepingwithaboythathadmadeherawoman.Itwasnoteventhepregnancy,or trying to remove it. Itwas this:being forcibly treated likea child,whenshewasn’tone.

Herfatherstaredather.“Idon’tevenknowwhoyouare,”hesaidsoftly,andthenheturnedonhisheelandleft.

—

JANINE KNEW PART OF THE disguise of being a woman who wanted anabortion involved fooling her own tribe. She and Allen had talkedabout this, how it was safer, how it was almost a quality controlcheckpointbeforesheenteredtheCenter.Ifshecouldgetbytheotherpro-life activists with her blond wig and her hoodie pulled up toshadowherface,thenshecouldlikelyconvincetheemployeesinside.Plus,ifshewalkedpasteveryoneandtheydidn’tcallouttoherthewaytheywouldanyotherwoman,itmightlooksuspicious.

Sotheonlypersonwhoknewwhoshewas,asshewalkedforthefirsttimeontheothersideofthefence,wasAllen.Hemethergazeandthen turned away to talk to another activist. Meanwhile, the othersbegantryingtogetherattention.SheknewthattheCenterconsideredthis harassment, but honestly, it was good citizenship—if you saw amurderinprogress,wouldn’tyoustopit?

“Goodmorning,” Ethel said, stretching her hand over the fencewithalittlepinkbagdanglingfromherfingers.“CanIofferyouagift?”

Janine felt her heart pound. She couldn’t speak; what if Ethelrecognized her voice? Instead she reached out and snatched theblessing bag. “You don’t have to go through with this,” Ethel saidtriumphantly. Janine knewwhy—if you could actually get one of thewomentotakeabag,youhadalreadygotten intoherhead.“Wecanhelp!”

Turningaway,Janinerang thebuzzerat theCenter’s frontdoor,and two seconds later she heard the buzz that would let her enter.Thereweremaybetenotherwomensittinginthewaitingroom—youngandold,calmandjittery,blackandwhite.Thewomanatthereceptiondesk had a name tag, VONITA. Janine gave her alias—Fiona—andwatched Vonita highlight her name on a list. Then she checked herwatch.“You’rethelastone,”shesaid.“Let’sgetyouinforaquicklabtestandyoucandotheultrasoundaftercounseling,sowedon’tholdup theprocess. Itmeansyou’llhave to stayafterward,butonly forafewminutes.Soundgood?”

ButJaninesaidnothing.Shehadexpectedthenervesthatwouldmake it difficult to be a spy. She had not expected the PTSD, thesuddenwave thatknockedheroffher feetandmadeherseenot thisclinicownerandthisreceptiondesk,butoneshe’dvisitedlongagoinadifferentstate.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Vonita said, smiling. She pattedJanine’shand.“Iknowyou’renervous,butIpromiseyou,we’llgetyouthrough.”

JaninewaswhiskedintothebacktohaveherbloodtestedforherRhtype,andtogiveaurinesample.Janine’swasinherpurseinalittlebaby food jar.Allenhadgotten it fromsomeonewhoknew someonewho was pregnant, and she hadn’t asked any questions. In thebathroom,shepoureditfromthejarintothespecimencup.

Whensheenteredthewaitingroom,Vonitawas juststartingthecounselingsession.Shesatdownbetweenawomanwhoseeyeswereso heavy-lidded shemight have been asleep, and awomanwhowastakingnotesdiligently inaspiralnotebook.“Irunthisclinic,”Vonitawas saying, “and I amglad you’ve found yourway tous.Now,we’regonnaspendafewmomentstogether,andthenthedoctorisgoingtocometalktoyouasagroup,andthenyou’regoingtohaveachancetomeetone-on-onewithhim.”

As she spoke, she walked around the semicircle of seating,handingoutclipboardswithpaperwork.“Allofyouhaveafile,yes?Onthe top is a prescription for azithromycin, which is given to youprophylacticallysoyoudon’tgetanytypeofinfection.Ineedyoutogetthatfilledandbringitwithyouwhenyoureturnforyourprocedure.”Shelookedaround,makingeyecontactwitheachwomantomakesuretheyunderstood.

“The sheet underneath that prescription is what we’re going toworkonfirst.It’syourtwenty-four-hourinformedconsent.Mississippilaw says that you can have an abortion twenty-four hours aftercompleting this counseling session.This formsignifies that youhavemade twovisits, the first onebeing today.We’regoing to fill out theareasmarkedwithX’stodocumentthatyou’rehereforyourfirstvisit.So.Takeyourpens,andlet’salldothistogether.”

Janineblindlyfollowedtheinstructions,makingupafakeaddressfor her fake persona, and scribbling the date and a signature. ThewomanbesideJaninewhowastakingnotesheldupherhand.“Whataboutthetime?”

“Dr.Wardwillfillthatpartoutforyouwhenyoumeetwithhim.”Vonitaheldupa fanmadeofbrightly coloredpamphlets. “Thesearebooklets that the Department of Health requires us to give to our

patients.Thisfirstonegivesalternativestoabortion,likeprogramsforunwed mothers and licensed maternity homes and adoptioninformation,andittellsyouwherethehealthdepartmentsarelocatedalloverthestate.Thesecondbookletshowsyouhowafetusdevelopsfrombeginningtoendofapregnancy.Thethirdbooklettellsyouwhatyourrisksarewhenyouhaveanabortion,aswellaswhenyouhaveababy. And the last one is my favorite. It’s about contraception.”Everyone but Janine laughed. “Today is the day you need to decidewhatkindofcontraceptionyou’dliketohavewhenyouleavehere.”

This surprised Janine; she had known that the Center was amurder factory, but not that they also tried to prevent pregnancies.She pressed down so hard on her mechanical pencil that the leadbroke.

“Now,pleasesignanddateontheformtoacknowledgeyouweregiventhesematerials.”TherewasatiredthreadinVonita’svoice,asifthiswereascriptshehadmemorizedlongago.“Thesecondportionofthispagewillbefilledoutwhenyoucomeback.You’llhavetoreaffirmyourdecisionbysigningagain.Anyquestionsyet?”

Afewwomenshooktheirheads.Theothersjustsatinsilence.

“We do two types of abortions here at the Center,” Vonita said,and Janine leaned forward on the edge of her chair. “There’s thesurgicalabortion,whichthedoctorperforms;andthereisthepill—themedicalabortion—whichisanoptionifyouaretenweekspregnantorless.”

“Whichone’sthefastest?”awomanblurtedout.

“Girl,”Vonitachidedgently,“I’mgettingtothat!Ifyoudecidetohave a surgical abortion, you’ll be here for three to four hours,althoughthesurgeryitselfislessthanfiveminutesfromthetimeyougointotheoperatingroomtillthetimeyoucomeout.Yourecoverforabout a half hour and then our nurse will give you dischargeinformation—bothverballyand inwriting—abouthow to takecareofyourself, along with a phone number to call for emergencies, and adate to return for a checkup. Surgery patients, if you return for acheckup,it’sfifteendollarsforthepregnancytest,andthirtydollarsifyou see the doctor.What I suggest you consider is you give yourselfthreeweeks,thengotoyourregularphysicianforacheckup;andyougetapregnancytestfromthepharmacyanddoityourself.Youshould

have a light line or a clear result, and if youdo, you can go on yourbirthcontrolmethod.”

A young woman with beads in her hair that sang asked, “Doesit…hurt?”Everyoneperkedup,listeningcarefullyfortheanswer.

Yes, Janine thought. She felt herself sinking backward into thedarkest corner of hermind, the vaultwhere she kept thememory ofher own procedure. It hurt in all sorts of places, when you leastexpectedit.

“There is some discomfort,” Vonita answered. “We suggest thatyoutakedeepbreaths,inandout.Therewillbeanurseintheroomtohelpyougetthroughtheprocess.It’sdoable,that’swhatIcantellyou,but it’s also not a garden party.” She surveyed the group. “Now, pillpatients,whenyou come in youwill be here for an hour and a half.You’llbeinaroomlikethis,afewofyouatatime.Thedoctorwillgiveyou the firstpill,which stopsyourpregnancy fromgrowingand tellsyourbodyandyourbrainthatyou’reabouttoabort.Thenhewillsendyouhomewith four pills in a little package. Twenty-four hours afteryou’ve taken the first pill here at theCenter, you are eligible to takethoseother fourpills.There’sawindow,so ifyou’reatworkatnoonthenextday,stayatworkandthentakethepillswhenyougethome.You’llbleedforaboutthreeweeks;ittakesthatlongforyourhormonelevel togoback to itsnatural state,andafter thatyoucome foryourcheckup.”

“Whichonedoyourecommend?”

“Onlyyoucandecide,”Vonitasaid.“Ifyoutenweeksalongorlessandare eligible for thepills, youget to avoid surgery.But surgery isoveranddonemorequicklythanthepillprocedure.Soreallyitisuptoyou.”

Janine foundherself thinking of her brother, Ben.He lived in agrouphomenow,andhebaggedgroceriesforaliving.HehadaDownsyndrome girlfriend he took out to dinner and amovie every Fridaynight.HewasobsessedwithStrangerThings.HehadthesameSaraLeepoundcakeeverynightforhisdessert.Hewashappy.Ontheotherhand, was she? She had devoted her livelihood to saving innocentbabies,butwasthatoutoffaithorguilt?Sheglancedaroundtheroomandwonderedhowmanyof thesewomenwouldhavetheirabortionsandfeellikeaburdenhadbeenlifted;andhowmany,likeher,would

letitgoverntherestoftheirlives.Butshesaidnoneofthis.

She forcedher attention toVonita again. “Now, after I finishuptalking,thedoctorisgoingtocomeouthereandtalktoyouasagroup.He’sgoingtoexplainexactlywhathedoes in thesurgeryandexactlyhowheadministersthepill.Ifyouhaveanyquestions,youcanaskhimatthattime.Ifyouhaveanyprivatequestions,youcanaskhimafterthat,duringtheindividualsessionhehaswithyou.Duringthattime,hewillsaywhatthelawrequireshimtosaytoyou.He’llreviewyourultrasound and your medical history and he’ll sign off on yourpaperwork. Then you’ll go to the reception desk, and schedulewhenyou’re coming back. I’ll tell you how much you owe and who yourdoctor is going to be the day you return.” She tidied the stack ofpaperworkonherlap.“Questions?”

How do you do it? Janine thought.How do you counsel this,whenyouknowtheywillleaveherecompletelydifferentwomenthantheyarrived?

Shelookedaroundattheotherwomen.HowcanIsaveall theirbabies?

HowcanItellthemthatthedecisiontheymaketodaymightnotfeelrighttomorrow?

Butshesaidnoneofthis.

“CanIworkthenextday?”someoneasked.

“Yes,” Vonita assured her. “Do you need a doctor’s note for anabsencetoday?”

“No,ma’am.”

Vonita nodded. She looked around the room. “We hope you arenotherebecauseanyonehas forcedyou tocome.Weare required totellyouthatyoudonothavetogothroughwiththisprocedureifyoudon’twantto.”

Frombeneathloweredlashes,Janineheldherbreath.

What if she stood up now, and said shewasmaking amistake?Whatifsheblewhercoverandtoldthesewomenthattheyneededtothinkoftheirunbornchildren?Whatifshebecametheirvoice?

Butshedidnot,andnowomanwavered.

—

IZZYWASSTUCKINTRAFFICataconstructionzone,sobythetimeshegottotheCenter,thetriphadtakenahalfhourlongerthanitshouldhave.SheparkedlopsidedandgrabbedherpurseandlockedthedoorstothecarasshewasrunningupthepaththatledtotheCenter’sfrontdoor.Shedidn’tevenheartheprotesters,that’showfrazzledshewas.

When she was buzzed inside, a man in scrubs was just settlingdowninaclusterofwomen,startingtospeak.ThewomanatthefrontdesktookonelookatIzzyandstartedtolaugh.“Sugar,”shesaid,“takeadeepbreath.WhatcanIdoforyou?”

Izzydid.“IamsosorryI’mlate,”shebegan,andsherealizedthatcouldbeinterpretedinsomanydifferentways,andthattheywouldallberight.

—

LOUIECALLEDITTHELAWofThree.MostofwhathetoldtheseladieshadalsobeensaidbyMissVonita,andhewouldrepeatittothemyetagainin the individual doctor-patient sessions that followed. But he alsoknewthatthesewomenweretooshell-shockedtobeabsorbingevenafractionoftheinformation,whichiswhy,bythethirdtime,hehopedthatithadsunkin.

Therewereelevenwomeninfrontofhim:sevenblack,twowhite,two brown. He paid attention to the race of those who came to theCenter because for him, the politics of abortion had so much incommonwiththepoliticsofracism.AsanAfricanAmericanmale,hecould imaginequiteeasilywhatwas liketonothave jurisdictionoveryourbody.Whitemenhadonceownedblackmen’sbodies.Now,whitemenwantedtoownwomen’sbodies.

“I amobligatedby the state to tell you some things that arenotmedicallytrue,”Louiesaid.“Iamobligatedtotellyouthathavinganabortionincreasesyourriskforbreastcancer,eventhoughthereisnoevidence to support that.”He thought back, as he always did, to thepatient he had treated once who had breast cancer, and who hadterminatedherpregnancysothatshecouldpursuetreatment.Myriskof getting breast cancer is zero, she had said flatly, since I alreadyhaveit.

“Iamobligatedbythestate,”hecontinued,“totellyouthatwithabortion, there are risks of injury to your bowel, bladder, uterus,fallopiantubes,andovaries;andthatifyouhaveinjurytoyouruterus

that’s severeenough,wemighthave to removeyouruterus,which iscalledahysterectomy.Butguesswhat?Thosearetheexactsamerisksthatyou’llhaveifyougivebirthtoababy.Infact,you’remorelikelytohavethoserisksgivingbirthtoachildthanhavinganabortion.Now.Y’allgotquestionsforme?”

Awoman’shandcreptuptentatively.“Iheardyouuseknivesandscissorstocutupthebabies.”

Louieheardthisatleasteveryothercounselingsession.Oneofthethings hewished he could tell womenwhowanted abortionswas tonever,everGoogletheword.Heshookhishead.“Therearenoknives,noscissors,noscalpels.”Hemadesuretocorrectheruseofthetermbabiesasgentlyaspossible.“Ifpatientswishtoseethetissueafterit’sremoved, they can. And it is disposed of in with respect, in anappropriatelegalway.”

She nodded, satisfied. Not for the first time, Louie was amazedthat a woman who believed nonsense like this would still be braveenoughtoscheduleanappointment.

Helookedintotheeyesofeachofthewomen.Warriors,everyoneofthem.Everyday,hewasremindedoftheirgrit,theircourageintheface of obstacles, the quiet grace with which they shouldered theirtroubles.Theywerestrongerthananymenhe’deverknown.Forsure,theywere stronger than themalepoliticianswhowere so terrifiedofthemthattheydesignedlawsspecificallytokeepwomendown.Louieshook his head. As if that could ever be done. If he had learnedanythingduringhisyearsasanabortiondoctor,itwasthis:therewasnothing on God’s green earth that would stop a woman who didn’twanttobepregnant.

—

THEREWASASTUFFEDLOBSTERonGeorge’sdaughter’sbed.ItwasredandworealittlewhitehatlikeaVictorianbaby,andhehadwonitforLilatachurchfair.Hesatinherroom,thewayheusedtoeverynightwhenhe tuckedher in,before she toldhimshecould readherownbooks,thankyouverymuch.Shehadbeensevenatthetime.Herememberedlaughing about it with PastorMike. He didn’t find it funny now. Inretrospect,itseemedlikethefirststeponapaththatwouldultimatelytakehersofarawayfromhimhecouldn’tevenseeherinthedistance.

Shehadwantedthatlobstersobadthathe’dpaidmorethanthirty

dollars to a huckster to get three baseballs he could pitch into rustymilkcans.Thefirsttimehewon,hewashandedalittlestuffedsnakethe size of a pencil.Damnbait and switch. But Lil had beennext tohim,clappingeverytimehegotonein,andsohe’dtradedupuntilhegot to the stuffed animal of her choice. The fact that she still had itafteralltheseyearswasatestament,hesupposed,towhatitmeanttoher.

Ormaybeshehadn’twantedtoletgoofherchildhoodanymorethanhedid.

Whenshewas little,everySaturdaymorning in thesummertimethey’ddriveoutinhistrucktogetcrawfish.Lilwouldcurlupnexttohimonthebenchseat,herlegsdanglingandkickingbecauseherfeetwere nowhere close to hitting the floor—happy feet, he’d call them.Therewas a creek thatwas shallow enough even for a five-year-old,andheandLilwouldgrababucket from thebackseat, takeoff theirshoesandsocks,andwadein.Hetaughtherhowtofindtherocksthatwouldmake good hiding spots. If you lifted the stones too fast, youwouldstartlethecrawfishandstirupthemudsotheyscurriedaway.Ifyouliftedthestonesslow,youwouldbeabletosurprisethecrawfish.Youcouldpickitupwithyourhandsthen,mindingthepincers.Iftheyhadagooddayhunting,Lilwouldhelphimboiltheminabrothmadeofonions, lemon,andgarlic.They’deat themwithpotatoesandcornon the cob, until they fell asleep in the lazy slant of the afternoon,belliesfullandfingersstillslickwithbutter.

Once,Lil had liftedoneof the crawfish to find rowsof little redeggsstuckunderneathher tail.Daddy, shehadasked,what’swrongwithher?

She’sgonnahavebabies,Georgehadexplained.Sowehavetoputherback,and letherdo just that.Youdon’tmesswithamama,Lil.Shebelongswithherbabies.

Lil had been quiet for a moment. Daddy, she’d asked. Whomessedwithmymama?

Hehad scoopedhis girlupandoutof thewater.Let’sgethomebeforethecrawdadsgetoutofthatpail,he’dsaid.Becausehecouldn’tverywelltellher,Idid.

Now,heliftedthepistolthatwascradledinhislapandstood.Ashedid, the paper he had found onher bedside table fluttered to the

floor. He stepped on it as he left the room, his heel landing squareacrosstheheadingatthetop.MedicationAbortionauthorizationandInformedConsent,itread.TheCenterforWomen’sHealth,Jackson.

W

Eighta.m.

ITHAFLOURISH,WRENSETTHEPLATEDOWNinfrontofherfather:afried egg, and a drippy candle stuck into a smile of melon.

“Happybirthdaytoyou,”shefinishedsinging.“Bytheway,thatwouldhavebeenwaybetterifIhadasibling.Harmonysuckswhenyou’reanonly.”

“You’reoverestimatingyoursingingability,”herdadgrunted.

Shelaughed.“Someone’sfeelinggrumpy.”

“Someone’sfeelingoldashell.”

Shesatdownacrossfromhim.“Fortyisthenewtwenty,”shetoldhim.

“Sayswho?”

“Me,”shesighed.“Itoldyouyouneverlisten.”

Hesmirkedandtookabiteofhisegg.Shedidn’thaveto lookathisfacetoknowthatitwasperfectlycooked.Herdadhadbeentheonetoteachhertofryonecorrectly.Thewaytoruinaneggwastonotbepatient,andtoheatthepantoofast,whichwouldmakeitsticktothepan.Youhadtobeslow,methodical,deliberate.Wrenhadlosttrackofhowmany timesher fatherhadcome into thekitchenwhenshewasmakingbreakfastandwouldautomatically turn the flamedown.But,asmuch as it painedher to admit it, he knewhis shit. The eggs shecookedwereworksofart.

She folded her arms and rested her chin on her them. “So I’vebeensaving thisone for today,”shesaid,and immediatelyheperkedup.Foraslongasshecouldremember,theytradedfacts,mostlyaboutastronomy—which her father had introduced her to so long ago shecouldn’t remember not being able to pick out constellations likeAndromeda and Cassiopeia and Perseus and Pegasus. “Astronomershavefoundamassivestarthatexplodedin2014…andagainin1954.”

Herfather’seyebrowsshotup.“Twice?”

Shenodded.“It’sasupernovathatrefusestodie.It’sfivehundredmillionlight-yearsaway,nearBigBear.Usuallysupernovasfadeoverahundreddays,right?Thisoneisstillgoingstrongafterathousand.”

Herdadhadtaughtherthatstarsneededfuel, likeanythingelsethat burned.When they started to run out of hydrogen, they cooled,changingcolortobecomeredgiants,likeBetelgeuse.Butthisstarhaddefiedtheodds.

“That is an excellent birthday fact.”He grinned. “What’s on theagendatoday?”

Sheshrugged.“I’mgoingtocheckonmymethlab,wireamilliontomyoffshoreaccount,andhavelunchwithBeyoncé.”

“Givehermybest,”herfathersaid.Heatehislastbiteoftheegg.“Doyouknowhowfewpeoplecancookaperfectegg?”

“Yes,becauseyoutellmeatleasttwiceaweek.IhavetogoorI’llmissthebus.”Shecircledthetableandkissedhischeek,breathinginthefamiliarsmellofstarchfromhisuniformshirtandbayrumfromhisaftershave.Wrenthoughtthatifsheeverwoundupinacoma,allthe doctors would have to do was wave that combination of scentsunderhernose,andsurelyshewouldwake.Shestoodupandreachedforherknapsackonthecounter,butbeforeshecouldgetit,herfathergrabbedherarm.

“Whataren’tyoutellingme?”heasked,narrowinghiseyes.

Sheforcedherselftomeethiseyes.“What?”

“Comeon.I’madetective.”

Wrendancedawayfromhim.“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,”shesaid.

Herfathershookhishead,smiling.“NeverletitbesaidIspoiledabirthdaysurprise.”

Wren walked halfway to the bus stop at the end of the streetbeforesheletoutthebreathshewasholding.Howhadheknown?

Shewasn’thidingabirthdaysurprise.Shewasgoingtogetbirthcontroltoday,attheCenter.Shewascuttinghealthclasstodoit,whichfeltsomehowkarmic.WrenthoughtofhowsheandRyanhadtalkedaboutthis:whetheritmadesensetousecondoms, if theirsafetyratewas good enough, how if Wren got contraception, she would do it

without having to tell her father. That much she and Ryan agreedupon.Ryandidn’t relish the thoughtofherdetective father,withhisstandard-issueGlock,findingoutthathisdaughterwassleepingwithhim.

Wrenknewthereweregirlswhoweresounromantictheyhadsexbecausetheywantedtogetitoverwith.Therewereotherswhoweresostarry-eyedtheytrulybelievedthattheguytheyhadsexwiththefirsttimewouldbetheironeandonly.Wrenwascaughtsomewhereonthespectrumbetween the two.Shewanted tohave sex for the first timewithsomeoneshecouldlaughwith,ifthingsgotweirdordidn’twork.Butshealsoknewtherewasmoretoitthanthat.Sheknewyourfirsttimecouldonlyhappenonce.Thereweresomanymemoriesthatyoudidn’t get to pick—like being the only kid in her class who wrote aMother’sDaycardtoheraunt,orturningseventyshadesofredwhenshehadtoexplaintoherfatherthatthereasonshe’dcalledhimfromthenurse’sofficewasn’t thatshehadthe flu,but thatshehadgottenherperiod.Giventhat,shouldn’tyouget tochoose thismemory,andmakeitperfect?

Thebuspulleduptothecurb,exhalingheavilyasitsdoorsswungopen. She picked her way through the rows, past the jocks and thebrainsandthetheaternerds,andslidintoablessedlyemptyrow.Shepressedher cheek to the cool glass.Thenext time she rode thisbus,shewouldbe taking thePill. Shewonderedhowmanyothergirlsonthe bus were. She wondered who was having sex, if they all felt asswollenwiththatsecretasshedid.

Oneday shewould tell her father that shewasn’t a virgin. Like,whenshewasmarriedandthirtyandhavingababy.

Asthebuschuggedtowardtheschool,Wrenthoughtmaybethiswasabirthdaygifttoherfather,afterall.Hegottothinkshebelongedonlytohim,foralittlewhilelonger.

—

HUGHWASFORTY,ANDHEfelteveryfuckingminuteofit.Heflattenedhishandson the table,bracketing theplateofbreakfastWrenhadmadehim, which he had scraped clean. You’d think that things would bedifferent,thattherewouldbeaninvisible linebetweenyesterdayandtodaytomarkthefactthathewasthisold,butno.Hewasstillheadedtothesameprecincthe’dbeenatsincehebecameacop.Hewasstilla

single parent. The table still had one wobbly leg that he hadn’tmanaged to fix. The only new thing was silver in his beard stubble,whichfranklyhecouldhavelivedwithout.

He supposed that thiswas the age thatmen began towonder iftheyweredoinganythingthatwouldleaveamarkontheworld.Ifhedied today,whatwould be said at his funeral? Sure, he hadmade adifferenceinthelivesofindividualsgivenhiscareer.AndhewouldnothavetradedamomentofhistimewithWren.Buthewasn’tagenius.Hewouldn’t invent something that eliminated fossil fuels or allowedfortimetravel.He’dnevernegotiateworldpeace.Hesupposedifeveryindividualman did his best, then the greater balance tipped towardgoodratherthanevil,butthatdidn’tkeeptheindividualdailychainofone’slifefromfeeling,well,mundane.

Plus,dammit,hisbackhurtafterhe’dbeenonhisfeetalldayinawayitneverusedto.

He feared—although he would never admit this to anyone—thatthiswasthecrest,thepinnacle.Thattherestofhislifewouldbeaslowmarchdownthehill;thathehadalreadyexperiencedthebestofwhatwas coming to him.What was getting old, anyway, except draggingyourfeettowardtheinevitable?

He was saved from skating further down this morbid path ofthought by the buzzing of his cellphone. Bex’s face popped onto thescreen,andhesmiled,shakinghishead.“Happybirthdaytoyou,”shesang,assoonasheanswered.“Happybirthdaytoyou!”

Heletherfinishheroff-keyrendition.“IthinkIknowwhoWrengetsherdubioussingingabilityfrom,”hesaid.

“Because it’syourbirthday,”hissistersaid,“I’mgoingtoletthatslide.”

Hughhadthreesiblings,buthewastheaccident,borntenyearsafterhisyoungestbrother.HewasclosesttoBex,eventhoughshewastheoldest.“Howcomeyou’retheonlyoneofmybrothersandsistersthatremembersmybirthdaywithoutfail?”

“BecauseI’mthebestone,”Bexsaid.

“And themost humble,” he added.He scratched his neck. “Tellme,doesitgoaway?”

“What?”

“Thisfeelingthatit’sthebeginningoftheend.”

Shelaughed.“Hugh,I’dgiveanythingtobefortyagain.YoumustthinkIhaveonefootinthegrave.”

Shewasfourteenyearshissenior,butheneverthoughtofherthatway.“You’renotold.”

“Thenneitherareyou,”shesaid.“Whatareyoudoingtomarkthisfestiveoccasion?”

“Protectingandserving.”

“Well, that’s depressing. You should be doing somethingextraordinary.Liketakingasalsalesson.Orgoingskydiving.”

“Yeah,”Hughsaid.“Idon’tthinkso.”

“Where’syoursenseofadventure?”

“Tiedtoapaycheck,”Hughsaid.“Today’sjustlikeanyotherday.”

“Maybe you’ll be wrong,” Bex replied. “Maybe today will beunforgettable.”

Hecarriedhis emptyplate to the sink, ranwaterover it, likehedideverymorning.Hegrabbedhisbadgeandhis carkeys. “Maybe,”Hughsaid.

—

EVERY MORNING JANINE WOKE UP and said a prayer for the child shedidn’thave.Sheknew that therewereplentyofpeoplewhowouldn’tunderstand,orwhowouldcallherahypocrite.Maybeshewas.Buttoher, that justmeantshehadsomething tomakeup for,and thiswashowshewasgoingtodoit.

Shepaddedintothebathroomandbrushedherteeth.Therewereanti-lifers who would rather cut off their arms than change theiropinions.But shecould try tomakepeople like thatunderstandhowshefelt:

StartwiththesentenceTheunbornbabyisaperson.Replacethewords unborn baby with the words immigrant. African American.Transwoman.Jew.Muslim.

Thatvisceralyes that swelled through themwhen they said thatsentenceoutloud?ThatwasexactlyhowJaninefeltaboutbeingpro-life. There were so many organizations set up to combat racism,

sexism, homelessness, mental illness, homophobia. Why shouldn’ttherebeonetofightforthetiniesthumans,whowerethemostinneedofprotection?

Janine knew she would never be able to convince everyone tobelievewhatshedid.Butifshechangedthemindofevenonepregnantwoman—well,wasn’tthatastart?

Shereached for thewig thatshehadproppedover theneckofashampoobottlelastnight.Incliningherhead,sheslippediton,fittingittightlyagainstherscalp.Thenshelookedinthemirror.

Janinegrinned.Shedidn’tlookhalfbadasablonde.

—

OLIVELAYONHERSIDE,watchingPegsleep.TherewassomuchshedidforherwifethatPegdidnotacknowledge.Thefirstcupofcoffeethatwas always too bitter? Olive took it. The floor was a mess? OlivevacuumedwhilePegwentforhermorningrun.Thesheetsonthebedthat were fresh every Sunday? Didn’t change themselves. Olive haddonethesethingsbecauseshelovedPeg.Butnow,shecouldseeintothe future. A year from now, Peg would spit out her coffee, wadethroughtuftsofdustbunnies,sleepinsheetsthatwereneverwashed.

MaybetheywouldsmellfaintlyofOlive.

Thetruthwas,foryearsnow,Olivehadbeenunabletoimagineaworld without Peg in it. Peg was about to have to imagine a worldwithouther.

Peg’seyesopened.ShesawOlivestaringandsnuggledcloserintoherarms.“Whatareyouthinkingabout?”shemurmured.

Olive felther throat tightening in thegripof thesecretsheheld,anditfeltwrong,unnatural.“I’mthinking,”shesaidfinally,honestly,“abouthowmuchI’llmissyou.”

Pegsmiled,closinghereyes.“Andwhereexactlyareyougoing?”

Olive opened hermouth and then hesitated. Shemight have tocount time,but shedidn’tneed to start theclockyet.ShepulledPegintoherarms.“Absolutelynowhere,”shesaid.

—

JOY DID NOT REMEMBER HER dreams, as a rule. This came, she wascertain,fromsleepingwithoneeyeopenatfosterhomes,tomakesure

that another kid wasn’t stealing something that belonged to her—abook,acandybar,herbody.Yetmonthsago,thenightbeforeJoyhadtakenapregnancytest,she’dimaginedthatshehadbaby,wrappedinablueblanket.

She’dhadthesamedreamlastnight.

Her alarm had awakened her—another anomaly; normally shewokeupatleastfiveminutesbeforeitwentoff.Butshecouldn’tbelatetoday.Soshehadshoweredquickly,onlytorealizethatherrazorwasbroken.Shedidnoteat—she’dbeentoldnotto—andsinceshewasnotsupposedtodriveherselfhome,shecalledforanUber.

HerdriverhadpicturesofhischildrenstucktothedashboardofhisKia.“Goingtobeahotonetoday,”hesaidastheypulledawayfromthecurb,andshesilentlycursed.Shedidn’twantachattydriver.Shewantedonewhowasmute,preferably.

“Iguess,”shesaid.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. “You in town for theconvention?”

She imagined this.What if therewas a convention of unhappilypregnantwomen?Whatiftheyfilledanentireconferencehall?WhatiftherewerebreakoutsessionsforSelf-DoubtandStupidChoices?Orasitting areawhere you could cry, and a soundproof roomwhere youcould curse as loud as youwanted at aman, at your rotten luck, atGod?

What if there was a keynote, with a motivational speaker whocould truly convince you that tomorrowwas going to be better thanyesterday?

Scratch that. It wasn’t the pregnant women who needed aconvention to educate them. Itwas thepeoplewhowere rushing thegates,tellingwomenlikeJoyshewasgoingtohell.

“Soyou’renotadentist?”thedriversaid.

“What?”

“Theconvention.”

“Oh,”Joysaid.“No.”

ShehadenteredtheCenter’saddress intoherUberappbutnowshewantedtogetoutofthecar.Shewantedtowalk.Sheneededtobe

alone.

“Canyoupulloverhere?”sheasked.

“Everything okay?” The driver slowed and put on his blinker,rollingtoastop.

“Yeah.Ijustneedto…Thisisgreat.Igottheaddresswrong,”shelied. Nevermind that they were literally beside a parking lot with adefunctvideostorethatwasboardedup.“It’sjustaroundthecorner.”

“Okaythen,”thedriversaid.

Joystartedwalking.Shefeltthesunonthecrownofherhead;itmighthavebeenablessing.Shecouldhearthecarrollingalongbehindher,slowlycrunchingthegravelonthesideoftheroad.Passme,shethought.JesusChrist,leavealready.

The Kia pulled up beside her, and the driver rolled down thewindow.Joyfeltlikecrying.Whytoday,ofalldays,didshehavetogettheUberguywithaconscience?“Ma’am,”hesaid,“youforgotthis.”

Shecamecloserandsawthathewasholdinguptheblueblanketthathadbeen in twoof herdreams. It hadnot been in thebackseatwithher.

Joyblinkedat it. “Thatdoesn’tbelong tome,” she said, and shekeptgoing.

—

IZZY WAS YAWNING AS SHE drove. She hated night shifts, and she hadworked long enough as a nurse in theER atBaptistMemorial to beable to avoid them. But she hadwillingly swappedwith a colleague,Jayla,becauseshehadtotakethenexttwodaysoff.

Shehadalreadybeenontheroadanhourandahalf,andshehadanother hour left, and she knew this because she had Googled itmultiple times, as if the answermight change. But still, rather thanleavingOxfordat sixA.M. as shehad intended,whenher shift endedshehadtakentheelevatoruptothebirthingpavilion.

Nobodyhadstoppedherfromgoingintothenursery;shehadherIDclippedrighttoherscrubs.Tohersurprise,though,therehadbeenonlyasinglebaby.Itwasa littleboy,swaddled inablueblanket.Hehad aname card: LEVONMONELLE. One tiny fist had punched the air,andhismouthhadbeenwideopen.Izzyhadwatchedhimcryandflail

around a little bit, and then through some miracle of guidance, hishandhadlandedonhislipsandhe’dstartedtosuckle.

Youwerenevertooyoungtolearntobeself-sufficient.

She had stroked a finger down the tight mummied wrap of hislittle body.Was it dishonest tonot tell Parker shewaspregnant?Orwoulditbeworsetotellhim,andthenbreakupwithhim?

Izzy had grown upwith her face pressed so hard against realitythat itwas impossible forher tobelieve inmythicalcreatures: fairiesandunicornsandmenwhocaredmoreaboutIzzy’sfuturewiththemthanaboutherpast.ShehadtriedtopictureherselfinParker’sworld,learninghowtoskiandspending fiftybucksatamovieonseatsandpopcorn and sodas without feeling guilty. But if she became thatwoman, shewouldn’t be Izzy anymore. Andwasn’t that who he hadfalleninlovewith?

Itwasbetterthisway.Parkerwouldneverknow.Hewouldn’tbeforced to stay with her out of some misguided sense of honor orchivalry.Oncehehadspaceandtimetothinkitover,oncehesettleddownwithsomeonemorelikehim,hewouldrealizeshehaddonehimafavor.Someonewhohadgrownupgettingbydaytodayjustdidn’thavetheresourcestodreamaboutthefuture.

When Izzy had left the little room, she’d stopped at the nurses’desk.“Howcometherearen’tmorebabies?”

The nurse had looked at her like she was crazy. “They’re in theroomswiththeirmamas.”

Izzyhad felt likean idiot.Of course theywere.Evennowas shedrove shewondered about Levon’smother.Had she needed to get agoodnight’ssleep?Wasshesick?Washe?

Izzy was afraid the answer was also something any vaguelymaternal female knew, which was why she hadn’t asked the L & Dnurse. If she needed confirmation that she was making the rightchoice,she’dreceivedit.

TheGPS onher phone told her that in twomiles, shewould beturningright.Sheputonhersignal,followingthedirectionscarefullybecause shewas not familiarwith the roads in Jackson,Mississippi.Butevenwithherdetourtothenursery,Izzyknewshewouldbefine.Barring unforeseen traffic, she would reach the Center in plenty of

timeforthefirstappointmentofherabortion.

—

YOUHADTOGETUPridiculouslyearlyinAtlantatogettoMississippibyeightA.M.,butLouiepreferredsleepinginhisownbedtosleepinginahotel.He spend somany days of themonth jetting toKentucky andAlabama andTexas andMississippi and other stateswhere abortionclinicswerebeingshutdownleftandright,thatwhenhecouldpulluphisowncoversandresthisheadonhisownpillow,hemovedheavenandearthtomakeithappen.

He was in Mississippi four times a month to provide abortionservices,aswerethreeothercolleagueswhorotatedcoverage,flyinginfromChicagoandWashington,D.C.Louiehadknownthatworkinginthe Deep South as an abortion provider was more challenging, say,than working on the East Coast. The biggest difference between theNorth and the South was not the weather or the food or even thepeople—itwasreligion.Here,religionwasasmuchoftheatmosphereascarbondioxide.Youhadtoofferfolksachancetobepro-choicenotinspiteoftheirfaith,butbecauseofit.

Louie liked routine, andhe adhered to itwhenever possible.Heknew the flightattendantsbyname,andalways reservedhis favoriteseat(6B).Hedrankcoffee,black,andheateaKindbarandayogurtthathepackedfromhome.Heusedthetimeontheplanetocatchuponmedicaljournalarticles.

Todayhewasreadingtheresearchofa teamfromNorthwesternUniversity, who had recorded a zinc flash at the precise instant aspermfertilizedanegg.Arushofcalciumatthatmomentcausedzinctobereleasedfromtheegg.Asthezincburstout, itattacheditselftosmall, fluorescentmolecules:thesparkthatwaspickedupbycameramicroscopes.

Althoughthishadbeenseenbeforeinmice,itwasthefirsttimeinhumans. More important, certain eggs glowed a little brighter thanothers at themoment of conception—the same ones thatwent on tobecome healthy embryos. Given that 50 percent of eggs fertilized invitroweren’tviable,andthatoftenitcamedowntoaclinicianguessingwhich one looked the healthiest—the implications of the study weresignificant. The correct embryo to transfer was the one that hadburnedthebrightestatthemomentoffertilization.

“ThenGodsaid,Let therebe light,”Louiemurmured tohimself.He shook his head in wonder. Those infinitesimal bits of zincdeterminedwhether an eggwould become a completely new geneticentity.Sciencenever failed tohumblehim, justasmuchashis faith,andheunequivocallybelievedthatthetwocouldexistsidebyside.

As a resident, he’d sat with his share of terminal patients, andwhat youheardwas true: peoplewhowere dying talked of a tunnel,withawarmglowattheend.

Itstood toreason thatboth lifeanddeathbeganwithasparkoflight.

Louie was so absorbed in the article that the jolt of the planehitting therunwaystartledhim.Hegathereduphis readingmaterialandwaitedfortheseatbeltsigntogooff.Thenhestoodupandpulledhis suitcase down from the overhead bin. He traveled only with acarry-on,preferringtokeepextraclothesinVonita’sofficejustincase.

HesaidgoodbyetoCourtney,theflightattendant,andturnedleftwhenheenteredtheterminal.Heknewthisairportbyrote:whenTSAPreCheckgotbusy, atwhichgatehe could findStarbucks,where themen’sroomswere.HeknewexactlyhowlongitwouldtakeforhimtogethisrentalcaranddrivetotheCenter.

Andasalways,becausehewasonsuchapredictableschedule,hiswelcomecommitteewaswaitingforhimwhenhearrived.

OneoftheregularprotestersattheclinicmetLouieattheairportwithoutfail,waitingatthebaseofthestairsnearbaggageclaim,whichwastheonlyroutetotherentalcaragencies.Louielikedtothinkofthedude as Allen the Anti.He held a hand-lettered sign that said LOUISWARD MURDERS BABIES. Louie didn’t know what pissed him off more:thatthemanwasasregularasclockwork,orthathemisspelledLouie’sname.

Allenwasstanding,asusual,withhissign.Louieneverengaged.Heknewbetter.Butthistime,thesignwasspelledright.ItwasenoughtocauseLouietoslowhisgait.“Dr.Ward,”Allensaid,smiling.“Goodflight?”

Hestopped.“It’sAllen,right?”

“Yes,sir,”themansaid.

Louie glanced at hiswatch. “What do you saywe grab a bite to

eat?”

Hehadfifteenminutesofslushtimebecausehisflighthadcomeinatouchearly.Andhefeltsafeintheairport,surroundedbypeople.Maybe it was possible to walk in another person’s shoes, withouttramplinghissteps.

Allentuckedhissignbeneathhisarmandtheywalkedbackupthestairs to McDonald’s, where Louie treated the protester to a BigBreakfastandcoffeeandthensatdownacrossfromhimatatable infullviewofanyonepassingbytogettotheticketcounter.“CanIaskyouwhyyoumeetmehere?”heasked.

Allen swallowed and smiled. “I want to shut down thatmurderfactory you work in,” he said, as easily as he might say, It’s been areallywarmfallsofar.

“Murder factory,”Louie repeated, turning thephraseover inhismouth. “How long should the women inmy care go to jail for theiroffense?”

“Hatethesin,notthesinner,”hesaid.

“Unlessthesinnerisme,right?”Louieclarified.“Soifyoucould,you’dbanallabortions?”

“Ideally.”

“Evenincasesofrapeandincest?”

Allenshrugged.“Really,howbigapercentageisthat?”

“Youdidn’tanswermyquestion,”Louiepressed.

“Youdidn’tanswermine,”Allencountered.“Andevenifit’soneofthose rare circumstances, that doesn’t mean you’re not committinghomicide.”

Louiethoughtof thesacheremovedduringanearlyabortion.Itwastissuethatdidn’tfeelpainorhavethoughtorsensation.Tohimitwaspotential.ToAllen,itwasaperson.Andyetwhowouldarguethattherewasnodifference in themoral implicationof choppingdownahundred-year-oldoaktreeversussteppingonanacorn?

Allen took a mouthful of eggs. Yet another life potentialsquandered, Louie thought. “You know, I considermyself pro-life. Ijusthappentobepro-the-life-of-the-woman.I’dcallyoupro-birth.”

“Icouldcallyoupro-abortion,”Allensaid.

“Noone is forcingwomentohaveabortions if theydon’task forthem.It’sthedifferencebetweensupportingfreewillandnegatingfreewill.”

Allen leanedback in his chair. “I don’t think you and I are evergoingtobeonthesamepageonthat.”

“Probably not. Butmaybe we can agree to neutralize the publicspacearoundpolicymaking.We’reallentitledtoourreligiousbeliefs,right?”

Warily,Allennodded.

“Butwecan’tmakepoliciesbasedonreligionwhenreligionmeansdifferentthingstodifferentpeople.Whichleavesscience.Thescienceofreproductioniswhatitis.Conceptionisconception.Youcandecidetheethicalvaluethathasforyou,basedonyourownrelationshipwithGod … but the policies around basic human rights with regard toreproductionshouldn’tbeupforinterpretation.”

LouiewatchedAllen’seyesglazewithconfusion. “Doyouhaveadaughter,Allen?”

“Ido.”

“Howold?”

“Twelve.”

“Whatwouldyoudoifshegotpregnantnow?”

Allen’sfaceflushed.“Yoursidealwaystriestodothat—”

“I’m not trying to do anything. I’m asking you to apply yourdogmapersonally.”

“Iwouldcounselher.Iwouldtakehertoourpastor.AndIwouldbeconfident,”Allensaid,“thatshewouldmaketherightchoice.”

“Idon’tdisagreewithyou,”Louiesaid.

Allenblinked.“Youdon’t?”

“No.Yourreligionshouldhelpyoumake thedecision ifyou findyourself in that situation.But thepolicy should exist for you tohavethe right to make it in the first place. When you say you can’t dosomethingbecauseyourreligionforbids it, that’sagoodthing.When

yousayIcan’tdon’tsomethingbecauseyourreligionforbidsit,that’saproblem.”Louieglancedathiswatch.“Dutycalls.”

“Youknow,it’salwaysfunnytomehowpro-choicefolkswereallactuallyborn,”Allensaid.

Louiegrinned,gatheringtheirtrash.“Thankyouforthecompany.Andthedialogue.”

Allenpickeduphissign.“Youmakeitveryhardtohateyou,Dr.Ward.”

“That’sthepoint,brother,”Louiesaid.“That’sthepoint.”

—

BETH HAD TRIED TO DO it the right way. She had gone to the Center,whichmightaswellhavebeenMarsgiventhedistanceandthecostofthebusticket.Shehadfilledouttheparentalconsentwaiverandhaditfiledbackinherowncounty.Itwasn’therfaultthatthejudgewhiffedout on her to go on a vacation with his wife. Judges shouldn’t beallowed to take them,notwhenotherpeople’s liveswerehangingontheirverdicts.

In the end, she had run out of time. The pills had come fromoverseas, and the instructionswere in Chinese, but she still had thepaperworkfromthecounselingsessionshehadattendedattheCenter,includingtheinstructionsforthosegettingamedicationabortion.Sheremembered the lady at the clinicwho’d talked to the group, sayingthat therewasacutoff for thepeoplewhotook theabortionpill.Shecouldn’t rememberwhat thatmagic number of weeks was, but Bethwassureshewasbeyonditnow.

Shewas in thebathroom,doubledoverwithcramps.At firstshewas sure she had done somethingwrong, because there hadn’t beenanybloodatall.Now,itwouldn’tstop.Anditwasn’tjustblood,itwasclots,greatdark,thickmassesthatterrifiedher.Thatwaswhyshehadcometositonthetoilet.Shecouldreachbehindherandflush.Shewasterrified of lookingdownbetweenher legs and seeing tiny arms andlegs;asad,minusculeface.

She felt her insides twist again, as if someone had attached athousandstringstotheinsideofherbellyandgroinandyankedthem.Beth drewher knees up even higher to her chin, the only thing thatbroughtrelief,buttodothatshecouldn’tsit.Shegotoffthetoiletand

rolledtoherside,sweating,groaning.Herbreathshortened,stutteredlinksonachain.

Thethingthatslippedbetweenherlegswasthesizeofaclenchedfist.Bethcriedout,seeingitonthelinoleum,pinkandunfinished,itstranslucent skin showing dark patches of future eyes and organs.Betweenitslegswasaquestionmarkofumbilicalcord.

Shaking,shegrabbedahandtowelandwrappedthe thingup(itwasn’tababy, itwasn’tababy, itwasn’tababy)andstuffeditintothe bottom of the trash, arranging tissues and makeup wipes andwrappersontopofit,asifoutofsightwouldbeoutofmind.

She was starting to see stars, and she thought maybe she wasdying,but thatdidn’tmake sensebecause therewasnoway shewasgoing toHeaven anymore.Maybe she could just close her eyes for aminute,andwhenshewokeup,thiswouldneverhavehappened.

Sheheardapounding,andforoneterrifiedmomentshethoughtitwascomingfromthetrashcan.Butthenitgotlouder,andsherealizedsomeonewascallinghername.

Bethwantedtoanswer,shedid.Butshewasso,sotired.

When thedoorbrokeopen, the lockshatteredbyher father, sheusedalltheenergyshehadlefttospeak.“Don’tgetmad,Daddy,”shewhispered,andtheneverythingwentblack.

—

GEORGE LEFT THE TRUCK RUNNING, parked illegally in a fire zone. Hedashedtothepassengersideandliftedhisunconsciousdaughterintohisarms,carryingher throughtheautomaticdoorsof theemergencyroom.Shewasbleeding through theblankethehadwrappedaroundher. “Please help my daughter,” he cried, and he was surroundedimmediately.

Theytookheraway,settingheronagurneyandrushingherintothebackashefollowed.Anurseputherhandonhisarm.“Mr.…?”

“Goddard,”hesaid.“That’smygirl.”

“Whathappenedtoher?”sheasked.

“Idon’tknow.Idon’tknow.”Hegulped.“Ifoundherlikethisinthebathroom.She’sbleedingfrom…fromdownthere…”

“Vaginally?”

Henodded.Hetriedtoseewhatthedoctorsweredoing,butthereweresomanyofthem,andtheymovedaroundher,blockinghisview.

“What’syourdaughter’sname?”thenurseasked.

Whenshewaslittle,andcouldn’tpronouncehername,shecalledherselfLilBit.Thatstuckforthelongesttime.Asshegrewup,hehaddropped the secondhalf of that termof endearment.Buthewas theonlyonetocallherLil;everyoneelseusedadifferentnickname.

“ElizabethGoddard,”Georgesaid.“ShegoesbyBeth.”

—

LASTNIGHT,BEXHADDREAMEDofapieceofart thatwasstill insidehermind. It was a pixilated fetus curled on its side. In thewhite space,though,carvedoutbytheabsenceofarmsandlegsandumbilicus,youwould see the optical illusion of a profile. And if you looked closely,you’dknowitwashers.

She was not surprised that today, of all days, she would findinspiration. Just yesterday she had finished her last commission. Itwastimetostartfresh.

ShehadalreadycalledHughtowishhimahappybirthdayandshehad finished a cupof tea.Herbodywashummingwith anticipation,likeachildwaitingforthesuntoriseonChristmas.Shewasgoingtosavorevery secondof thismorning,pluck it likeaviolin string, let itsingthroughher.

In the closet of her studio where she kept her paints and herturpentineandherbrushestherewasatinypanelthat,withthepressofafinger,wouldbouncefreetorevealahidingspot.Ithadcomewiththehouse.Shehadnoideawhatithadbeenusedforbythepreviousowners—a safe, maybe, or hidden love letters. Bex kept a shoe boxinside,onethatshepulledoutnowandsetonherworkbench.

Inside was an impossibly small blue cotton hat, and a hospitalbracelet: BABY BOY MCELROY. And then, best of all, the photograph—fadingnow,intorustsandyellowsandgreensthatsheassociatedwiththe seventies. It was 1978, and there was Bex in the hospital bed,fourteenyearsoldandholdinganewbornHugh.

Bexcouldhavegottenanabortion—itwaslegal—buthermother,adevout Catholic, talked her out of it. She came up instead with thesolutionthatbecameasecret.FromthemomentBexleftthehospital,

shewasnolongerHugh’smother,buthissister.Herfathergotajobinadifferentstateandtheymovedthere,plasteringoverthesubterfugeuntil sometimes Bex even forgot the reality. There had been a pointwhenhermotherdied thatBexhadconsidered tellingHugh,butshewasafraidhemightbesoangry thathe’dhateher.Thisshecouldn’trisk.

Bexstillgot towatchHughgrowup,haveababyofhisown.Sodidthelabelsreallymatter?

It had taken her forty years of careful practice, but she allowedherselfregretsonlyonedayayear—thisone,Hugh’sbirthday.Shetookoutthisshoebox,andshepicturedtheparalleluniversesofherlife.Inone,shewasHugh’smother,Wren’sgrandmother.Inanother,shehadfalleninloveagain,married,andhadachildshecouldgatherintoherarmsanytimeshewished.Inathird,shewenttoartschoolandmovedtoFlorenceandbecameasculptor,insteadofstayinginMississippitowatch overHugh after her father had died andhermombecame analcoholic.

Bex, who had not terminated her pregnancy, had still lost apotential life that day—her own. But when she started to grieve forwhatshehadmissed,sheredirectedherattentiontothelivesthathadbeen saved, literally, by her son—the battered wives, the suicidejumpers. The teenager Hugh had pulled from the freezing river lastyear.Wren.

No.Shewouldnothavechangedathing.Orthisiswhatshetoldherself,anyway,whensheletthequestionrisehighinherthroat,whenshefeltlikeshewaschoking.

Bex carefully put the photo in the bottom of the shoe box andplacedthebraceletandthehatinside.Shecarrieditbacktotheclosetandslippeditintoitshidingplace.Thenshepulledthetrapdoorintoplaceagain,sealingthecryptofthismemory.

Occasionallyshewonderedif,aftershedied,someonewouldfindtheshoebox.Maybewhoeverboughtherhouse.Shewonderediftheywouldcreateamythologyaroundtheartifacts,ifitwouldbeatragedyoralovestory.Itcould,Bexknew,bebothatonce.

She shut the closet and then opened the curtains in her studio.Sunshinespilledontothewoodenfloor, likegoldengrainfromasilo.Theskywasclear,asblueasherson’seyes.Itwaswhyshehadnamed

him as she did—her only hint. Even at fourteen, Bex had alreadypictured the world as an artist did, cast in shadows and light. Eventhen,whatmatteredmostwashue.

Hugh.

Bexsmiled,reachingforthestretcherbarsandunprimedcanvas.Today,shethought,isagooddaytobeborn.

N

Epilogue

Sixp.m.

ONEOFUSCHOOSEOURPARENTS.BUTSOMEOFUSGETLUCKY.

OneminuteWrenfeltherfather’sarmclosearoundher.Shecouldsmellhim—bay rumaftershaveandstarch. “It’sokay,”hewhispered,hisbreathmovingthehairathertemple.“Everythingisokaynow.”

She believed him. She always had. She believed him when heswore to her that there was no reason to be afraid of the dark, andtaughtherhowtoreadthestars,soshewouldneverfeellostinit.ShebelievedhimwhenheprintedoutarticlesaboutInternetpredatorsandcatfishing and left them taped to her bathroommirror. She believedhimwhenheateaspidertoprovethatitwasn’tsoscaryafterall.

He gently pushed her back, his eyes catching on their claspedhands.“Wren,goonnow,”hesaid.

She couldn’t make herself step away. Wren, who had gottenherself into thismess because she couldn’t wait to grow up, wantednothingmorethanforher father torockheronhis lapandnever lethergo.

“Letmefinishthis,”hemurmured.

She took an unsteady step toward thewhite canopy of the tent.Therewerecopsthere,motioningtoher,butnoonecameforwardtograbher.

Once, there had been a tornado in Jackson.Wren rememberedhow the sky turned the yellow of a jaundiced eye, and how theatmospherefeltpregnant.Themomentsbeforethewindslammedintothe city, the air had gone so still that Wren thought the world hadstoppedspinning,thattimehadstartedtomovebackward.That’showit felt just then, and it waswhyWren turned around halfway to thecommandtent.

She heard her father’s voice, as he spoke to George Goddard.“Thinkofyourdaughter.”

“She’llneverlookatmethesameafterthis.Youdon’tgetit.”

“Thenmakemeunderstand.”

Wrenwasstaringattheshooterwhenhepulledthetrigger.

—

WREN’SFATHERUSEDTOTELLherastoryabouthowhe’dbeenherherofrom the moment she was born. She was in the hospital, and thenursesweredoingwhateverteststheyhadtodobeforeababycouldbedischarged.One of themwas called theGuthrie test,which requiredthe newborn’s foot to be pricked and several drops of blood to bedrippedontoadiagnosticcard.ItwassenttothelabtotestforPKU.

The nurse that day was inexperienced, and when she prickedWren’sfoot,thebabystartedtowail.Itdidn’tbleedenough,soshehadtoprickWrena second time. She squeezed thebaby’s foot, trying tomanuallyextractblood.Bynow,Wrenwashowling.

Her father stood up and grabbed his daughter away from thenurse.HewrappedWren inablanketandannounced that theyweregoinghome.Thenursesaidthiswasn’tpossible,thatshehadtofinishthetestbylaw.

Iamthefuckinglaw,herfathersaid.

Hestillwasn’tallowedinthathospital.

—

HEROES,WREN KNEW, DID NOT always swoop in to rescue. Theymadequestionable calls. They livedwith doubts. They replayed and editedandimagineddifferentoutcomes.Theykilled,sometimes,tosave.

Wrenwaswrapped in a spaceblanket, shivering, even though itwasstillhotoutside.Herribshurtfromwhereshehadbeentackledbyamember of theSWAT team.Would the gunmanactuallyhave shotWren?No one knew, because instead her father had scooped up hisweaponandfiredthreeshotsintoGeorgeGoddard.

Onlivetelevision.

Therehadbeena lotofactivity—herfatherbeingpulledawaybythe SWAT team; paramedics loading the body into an ambulance,

becauseadoctorhadtopronouncetheshooterdead.

Theshooter.

Wrenrealized,withalittlestart,thattitleappliedtobothmen.

Shewas sitting on the flatbed of a police truckwhen her fatherapproached. His arm had gauze wrapped around it. Goddard’swaywardshot,theonemeantforher,hadstruckhim.

Shehad come to the clinicbecause shedidn’twant tobea littlegirlanymore.Butitwasn’thavingsexthatmadeyouawoman.Itwashavingtomakedecisions,sometimesterribleones.Childrenweretoldwhat todo.Adultsmadeup theirownminds,evenwhen theoptionstorethemapart.

Her father followed her gaze to the Center. Bathed in the lastthroesofsunset,theorangewallslookedliketheywereonfire.“What’sgoingtohappentoit?”Wrenasked.

“Idon’tknow.”

ShefoundherselfthinkingaboutDr.WardandIzzyandJoyandJanine.AboutpoorVonita.AboutthenamelesswomenwhohadbeenintheCenterbeforeWrengotthere,andthewomenwhowouldshowup tomorrow for anappointment and trampleover thepolice tape iftheyhadto.

“AuntBexiswaitingforus,”herfathersaid.Heheldouthisarms,asifWrenwerestilllittle,andswungherdownfromtheflatbed.Wrensawhimwincebecauseofhisinjury.

When she was tiny, she used to play a game with him bytighteningherarmsandlegsandstraighteningherbackbonetobeasrigidaspossible.I’mmakingmyselfextraheavy,shewouldtellhim,andhewouldlaugh.

I’llalwaysbeabletocarryyou.

Thenightskyrippled,bluestarsrisingandredonesfading.Theywere surrounded by life and death. Theymoved past the chain-linkfencethatranalongtheperimeteroftheCenter.Onit,theprotestershadhungalongcurlofbutcherpaper:IT’SACHILDNOTACHOICE.Wrenhad walked past the sign this morning, and remarkably, it was stillintact.

A few feet past the Center, Wren stopped. “You all right?” her

fatherasked.

“Justasecond.”

Wrenranbacktothefence.Sherippedthebanneroff,crumpledalongpiece,andthrewitontheground.Whatremainedshespearedonthetopofthechainlinktosecureit.

CHOICE.

Shesurveyedherwork.There,Wrenthought.

Manyyearslater,whenWrentoldthisstory,shedidn’trememberamendingthesign.Shedidn’trememberwhetherthefenceoutsidetheCenterwasplasterormetal,howsmall theclosethadbeen,or ifheraunt’sbloodhadspilledon tileorcarpet.Whatsherememberedwasthat,assheleftwithherfather,itwasthefirsttimesheheldhishand,insteadoftheotherwayaround.

AUTHOR’SNOTEThe National Abortion Federation compiles statistics on violencecommitted by anti-abortion protesters in the United States andCanada.Since1977,therehavebeen17attemptedmurders,383deaththreats,153 instancesofassaultandbattery,13 individualswounded,100 stink bombs, 373 break-ins, 42 bombings, 173 arsons, 91attempted bombings or arsons, 619 bomb threats, 1630 incidents oftrespassing, 1264 incidents of vandalism, 655 anthrax threats, 3kidnappings.

Elevenpeoplehavebeenkilledasaresultofviolencetargetedatabortion providers: four doctors, two clinic employees, a securityguard,apoliceofficer,aclinicescort,andtwoothers.

Anti-abortion extremists are considered a domestic terroristthreatbytheU.S.DepartmentofJustice.

Yetviolence isnottheonlythreattoabortionclinics.Inthepastfive years, politicians have passed more than 280 laws restrictingaccess to abortion. In2016, theSupremeCourt struckdownaTexaslaw thatwouldhave requiredeveryabortion clinic tohavea surgicalsuite, and doctors to have admitting privileges at a local hospital incaseofcomplications.Formanyclinics,theserequirementswerecostprohibitive and would have forced them to close. Also, since manyabortion doctors fly in to do their work, they aren’t able to getadmittingprivilegesatlocalhospitals.Itisworthnotingthatlessthan0.3 percent of women who have an abortion require hospitalizationdue to complications. In fact colonoscopies, liposuction,vasectomies… and childbirth—all ofwhich are performed outside ofsurgicalsuites—havehigherrisksofdeath.

InIndianain2016,MikePencesignedalawtobanabortionbasedon fetal disability and required providers to give information aboutperinatal hospice—keeping the fetus in utero until it dies of naturalcauses.Thissamelawrequiredabortedfetusestobecrematedorgivenaformalburialevenifthemotherdidnotwishthistohappen.Thelawwasblockedbyajudgein2017.

InAlabama,a2014lawrequiredaminortogeta judicialwaiver

for abortion from a court, where a guardian ad litem would beprovidedasa lawyerforthefetus.Inthissamelaw,aparentor legalguardianhad the right toappeal thebypass,delaying ituntil thegirlwaspastthepointwhereshecouldlegallyabort.Afederaljudgestruckdownthislawin2017.

In Arkansas, women must be informed that it is possible toreverse the effects of the medication abortion with progesterone.Similar bills have been introduced in Arizona, Colorado, California,Indiana, Idaho, North Carolina, and Georgia. Americans United forLife,apowerful lobbyistgroup,madeabortionpillreversalpartofitsmodel legislationfor2017.However, thereareno formalstudies thatsupporttheclaimthatamedicationabortioncan,indeed,bereversed.

On March 19, 2018, after this book was submitted to thepublisher, Governor Phil Bryant of Mississippi signed into law theGestationalAgeAct,banningabortionsinMississippiafter15weeksofpregnancy, making it the state with the earliest abortion ban in theU.S. He tweeted, “I am committed to making Mississippi the safestplace inAmerica foranunbornchild.”The lawmakesexceptions forseverefetalabnormality,butnotrapeorincest.Doctorswhoperformabortionsafter15weeksmustfilereportsexplainingwhy,andif theyviolatethelawtheirmedicallicenseswillbeendangered.TheJacksonWomen’sHealthOrganization—the“PinkHouse”—istheonlyabortionproviderinMississippi,andalreadycutsoffabortionsatsixteenweeks.Thereisnomedicalorscientificreasonforthechange.

There’s a mistaken belief that legislating barriers to pregnancytermination, or overturning Roe v. Wade, will end abortions.Precedentdoesn’t suggest this—in the 1950sup to 1.2millionunsafeabortions were performed annually. According to the GuttmacherInstitute, the rateof abortionsdeclined from2000 through2008, inspite of their legality. But breaking down the numbers is important.For women in poverty, abortion rates increased 18 percent. Forwealthy women, abortion declined by 24 percent. That means poorwomenaregettingpregnantwhentheydon’twantto.Infactsevenoutoftenwomenwhoterminatedapregnancymadelessthan$22,000ayear. In 2004, three-quarters of women surveyed said they had anabortionbecausetheycouldn’tfinanciallycareforachild.Nostudytodatehasaskedifimprovingsocioeconomicconditionsforthesewomenwoulddecreasethenumberofabortions.

For this book, I interviewed pro-life advocates. They were notreligious zealots; they were men and women whose conversation Ienjoyed and who were speaking from a place of deep personalconviction.Allofthemwereappalledbyactsofviolencecommittedinthenameofunbornchildren.Theytoldmetheywishedthatpro-choiceadvocatesknewthattheyweren’ttryingtocircumventwomen’srightsor tell women what to do with their bodies. They just wanted thewomenwhomade that legal choice to realize that life was precious,andthattheirdecisionwouldaffectaninnocent.

Ialsointerviewed151womenwhohadterminatedapregnancy.Ofthosewomen, only one regretted her decision. Themajority thoughtabouttheabortiondaily.WhenIaskedthemwhattheywishedpro-lifeadvocates knew about them, the responses were heartfelt. Manywantedtoconveythatawomanwhomakesthisdecisionisnotabadperson.Asonewomansaid,“Idon’tneedpeopleshamingmebecauseofachoicethatalreadyhurtmyhearttohavetomake.”

ImetwiththestaffatthePinkHouse.Ialsohadtheprivilegetoshadow Dr. Willie Parker as he performed abortions at the WestAlabama Women’s Center in Tuscaloosa, Alabama (and yes, thefictionalDr.Wardbearsacloseresemblance toWillie).Dr.Parker isoneof the fiercest championsofwomenIhaveevermet,andhe isadevoutChristian.Hechosethisworkbecauseofhisfaith—notinspiteofit.Hefeelsthatthecompassioninhisreligionmeanshehastoacton behalf of others instead of judging them. It is Dr. Parker whoinventedwhat he calls verbicaine—the conversationmeant to relax apatient during the procedure. It is not intended to trivialize what ishappening. It ismeant toput theevent intocontext.Anabortion,hefeels, should not be the benchmark bywhich awomanwillmeasureher entire life. I urge you to read his book, Life’s Work: A MoralArgumentforChoice,tolearnmoreabouthisjourney.

In Birmingham, thanks to the generosity and grace of threepatients,Iobservedafive-weekabortion,aneight-weekabortion,anda fifteen-week abortion. The first two procedures took less than fiveminuteseach,andyes,Isawtheproductsofconception,andtherewasnothingthatwouldsuggest,tothenakedeye,adeadbaby.Thefifteen-weekprocedurewasmorecomplicated,andtookafewminuteslonger.Mixedamidthebloodandtissueweretiny,recognizablebodyparts.

Dr.Parkerbelieves in transparency inhiswork.Heunderstands

that a fetus is a life.He does not believe it’s a person.His questioncomesdowntothemoralresponsibilitieswehavetoeachother.Whilepro-life protesters are protecting the rights of the fetus, who isprotectingtherightsofwomen?

The woman who had come in to have that abortion at fifteenweeks had three other children under the age of four. She could notafford another child without compromising the care of the ones shealreadyhad.Didcomingtotheclinicmakeheraterriblemother,oraresponsibleone?

Imyselfhavenothadanabortion.Ialwaysbelievedmyselftobepro-choice. Then, I got pregnant with my third child, and at sevenweeks, began spotting heavily. The thought of losing that pregnancywas devastating to me at that time; in my mind this was already ababy. However, had I been a college sophomore with a seven-weekpregnancy, Iwouldhavesoughtoutanabortion.Wherewedrawthelineshifts—notjustbetweenthosewhoarepro-lifeandpro-choice,butineachindividualwoman,dependingonhercurrentcircumstances.

Laws are black and white. The lives of women are a thousandshadesofgray.

So can we solve the abortion debate without legislation? Let’sbeginwith theprinciple thatnobodywants tohaveanabortion; thatit’salastresort.Ifweassumethatthepro-lifecampwantstoreduceoreliminateprocedures, and that thepro-choice campwantswomen tobe able to make decisions about their own reproductive health,perhapstheplacetostartisbeforethepregnancy—withcontraception.IntheUnitedStates,in2015therewere57teenagebirthsper1000.InCanada it was 28 per 1000. In France, 25. In Switzerland, 8. Thedifferenceisthatthoseothercountriesactivelypromotecontraceptionwithoutjudgment.This isn’tthecaseintheUnitedStates,becauseofreligiousbeliefs that favorprocreation;however, if theendgame is toreduce abortions, promoting contraception would be the easiestsolution.

If the greatest number of women choosing abortions do sobecause of economic issues, then this, too, is an area to consider. Ifpro-life advocates could prevent abortions by raising taxes andvolunteering to adopt, would they? If pro-choice advocates believewomen shouldbe able tomakeadecisionwithout externalpressure,would they give up some of their income so that women who are

financiallystrappedbutwanttocontinuetheirpregnanciescan?

To that end, it’s worth asking what would happen if we madesocial servicesmore readily available to pregnantwomen. Increasingtheminimumwagewouldgivewomenthefinancialsecuritytoraiseababy, if theysochoose.Government-fundeddaycarewouldeliminatethe threat of losing their jobs. Universal healthcare would allowwomen tobelieve they could financially affordnot just thebirthof achild,butitscontinuedexistence.

There are other avenues to explore, too, that might reduce thenumber of womenwho end up having to terminate. Employerswhodriveawaypregnantwomenshouldbepenalized.Guaranteedprenatalcareatnochargemightencouragewomentocarrytoterm,andcouldbe set up throughanetworkof adoptiveparentswho foot thebill inreturn.

Honestly,Idonotbelievewe,asasociety,willeveragreeonthisissue.The stakesare toohigh, andboth sidesoperate fromplacesofunshakablebelief.But Ido think that the first step is to talk to eachother—andmoreimportant,to listen.Wemaynotseeeyetoeye,butwe can respect each other’s opinions and find the truth in them.Perhaps in those honest conversations, instead of demonizing eachother,wemightseeeachotherasimperfecthumans,doingourbest.

—JODIPICOULT

MARCH2018

ForJenniferHersheyandSusanCorcoran

Ifyou’relucky,youwindupwithcolleaguesyoulove.

Ifyou’reluckier,theyfeellikesisters.

XOX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTSThereweremultipleprofessionalsinwomen’sreproductivehealthandmedicine who shared their expertise withme: Linda Griebsch; JulieJohnston, MD; Liz Janiak; Souci Rollins; Susan Yannow; RebeccaThompson,MD;MargotCullen,MD.DavidToub,MD,getsa specialshout-out because he was willing to Skype with me while he wasironingpantsonaSaturdaynight,whenIhadaquestionthatcouldn’twait.

Forshowingmetheotherside:PaulandErinManghera.

For their legal brilliance: Maureen McBrien-Benjamin andJenniferSargent.

For helping me understand the role of the hostage negotiator:JohnGrasselandFrankMoran.

For teachingmehowto tiea tourniquetandput inachest tube,justincasethiscurrentcareerdoesn’tworkout:ShannonWhyte,RN;SamProvenza;JoshMancini,MD.

Forspiriteddiscussion,and/or forallowingmetostealpiecesoftheirlives:SamanthavanLeer,KyleTramonte,AbigailBaird,FrankieRamos,ChelseaBoyd,SteveAlspach,EllenSands,BarbKline-Schoder.

Forreadingearlydrafts,backwhentherewerestill sixteenmaincharacters:LauraGross,JanePicoult,ElyssaSamsel.

Forthesensitivityread,spot-onsuggestions,andforjustbeinganawesomewriterwholetsmegripeviatextabouthowhardthisjobis:NicStone.

For being the best in the business: Gina Centrello, KaraWelsh,KimHovey,DebbieAroff,SanyuDillon,RachelKind,DeniseCronin,Scott Shannon, Matthew Schwartz, Erin Kane, Theresa Zoro, PaoloPepe, Christine Mykityshyn, Stephanie Reddaway, Susan Corcoran,andJenniferHershey.Iwouldnotbenearlyaswillingtowalkthroughfireifyouallweren’tatmyside.

To the employees of the West Alabama Women’s Center inTuscaloosa,Alabama,andtheJacksonWomen’sHealthOrganization

in Jackson,Mississippi, and others whowalk the walk: Gloria Gray,DianeDervis,“MissBetty,”andTara;Alesia,Mamie,Renetah,Francia,Tina,Chad,Alfreda,andJessica.

A giant thank-you toWillie Parker,MD,who educates, inspires,andministerstothosewhoneeditthemost.I’mhonoredtocallyouafriend,andI’mawfullygladwomenhaveyouintheircorner.

Finally,Iamgratefultothe151womenwhowerewillingtotellmeabout theirabortions:JoanMogulGarrity,JoleneStark,E.Johnson,“M,” Christine Benjamin, Megan Tilley, Susan (UK), Laura Kelley,SarahS.,LeanneGarifales,Dena,NatashaSinel,Emma,JenniferFelix,JLR,RobertaWasmer,Nina,Eileen,NancyEmerson,LauraRooney,HeatherC.,JenniferKlemmetson,Alie,AmandaClark,Heidi,LorraineDudley, Brooke, Shirley Vasta, Lisa Larson, Cynthia Brooks,MelissaM., Tori, Kara Clark, Sonia Sharma, Andrea Lutz, Claire, AlisonM.,RaeS.,Megan,MelissaStander,andthedozenswhodidnotwanttobenamed. It is my hope that as more stories like this are told, fewerwomenwillhavetoremainanonymous.

BIBLIOGRAPHYThefollowingmaterialswereusefultomeinthewritingofthisnovel:

Baird,Abigail,ChristyBarrow,andMollyRichard.“JuvenileNeuroLaw:WhenIt’sGoodItIsVeryGoodIndeed,andWhenIt’sBadIt’sHorrid.”JournalofHealthCareLawandPolicy15(2012).

Camosy,CharlesC.BeyondtheAbortionWars:AWayForwardforaNewGeneration.Wm.B.Eerdmans,2015.

Cohen,DavidS.,andKrystenConnon.LivingintheCrosshairs:TheUntoldStoriesofAnti-AbortionTerrorism.OxfordUniversityPress,2015.

Eichenwald,Kurt.“America’sAbortionWars(andHowtoEndThem).”Newsweek,December25,2015.

Fernbach,Philip,andStevenSloman.“WhyWeBelieveObviousUntruths.”SundayReview,NewYorkTimes,March3,2017.https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/03/opinion/sunday/why-we-believe-obvious-untruths.html.

Gilligan,Carol,andMaryFieldBelenky.“ANaturalisticStudyofAbortionDecisions.”NewDirectionsforChildDevelopment7(1980).

Graham,Ruth.“ANewFrontintheWaroverReproductiveRights:‘Abortion-PillReversal.’”NewYorkTimesMagazine,July18,2017.https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/18/magazine/a-new-front-in-the-war-over-reproductive-rights.html.

Johnson,Abby.Unplanned:TheDramaticTrueStoryofaFormerPlannedParenthoodLeader’sEye-OpeningJourneyAcrosstheLifeLine.Tyndale,2010.

Knapton,Sarah.“BrightFlashofLightMarksIncredibleMomentLifeBeginsWhenSpermMeetsEgg.”Telegraph,April26,2016.https://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/2016/04/26/bright-flash-of-light-marks-incredible-moment-life-begins-when-s/.

Kowalski,Gary.“TheFoundingFathersandAbortioninColonialAmerica.”AmericanCreation(blog),April6,2012.http://americancreation.blogspot.com/2012/04/founding-fathers-and-abortion-in.html.

Miller,MonicaMigliorino.Abandoned:TheUntoldStoryoftheAbortionWars.St.BenedictPress,2012.

Oakes,Kelly.“51MindBlowingFactsAboutLife,theUniverse,andEverything.”https://www.buzzfeed.com/kellyoakes/mind-blowing-facts-about-life-the-universe-and-everything?utm_term=.om3qZdoZjz#.eb2M06802R.

Parker,Willie.Life’sWork:AMoralArgumentforChoice.AtriaBooks,2017.

Paul,Maureen,etal.ManagementofUnintendedandAbnormalPregnancy:ComprehensiveAbortionCare.Wiley-Blackwell,2009.

Perrucci,AlissaC.DecisionAssessmentandCounselinginAbortionCare:PhilosophyandPractice.Rowman&Littlefield,2012.

Pollitt,Katha.“AbortioninAmericanHistory.”Atlantic,May1997.https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1997/05/abortion-in-american-history/376851/.

Pollitt,Katha.Pro:ReclaimingAbortionRights.Picador,2014.

Saxon,Lyle,RobertTallant,andEdwardDreyer.GumboYa-Ya:ACollectionofLouisianaFolkTales.BonanzaBooks,1984.

Thomson,JudithJarvis.“ADefenseofAbortion.”PhilosophyandPublicAffairs1,no.1(1971).http://spot.colorado.edu/~heathwoo/Phil160,Fall02/thomson.htm.

Wicklund,Susan.ThisCommonSecret:MyJourneyasanAbortionDoctor.PublicAffairs,2008.

BYJODIPICOULT

ASparkofLight

SmallGreatThings

LeavingTime

TheStoryteller

LoneWolf

SingYouHome

HouseRules

HandlewithCare

ChangeofHeart

NineteenMinutes

TheTenthCircle

VanishingActs

MySister’sKeeper

SecondGlance

PerfectMatch

SalemFalls

PlainTruth

KeepingFaith

ThePact

Mercy

PicturePerfect

HarvestingtheHeart

SongsoftheHumpbackWhale

FORYOUNGADULTS

OffthePage

BetweentheLines

ANDFORTHESTAGE

OvertheMoon:AnOriginalMusicalforTeens

MusicalforTeens

AbouttheAuthor

JODIPICOULTisthe#1NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthoroftwenty-fivenovels,includingSmallGreatThings,LeavingTime,TheStoryteller,LoneWolf,SingYou Home, House Rules, Handle with Care, Change of Heart, NineteenMinutes,My Sister’s Keeper, and, with daughter Samantha van Leer, twoyoung adult novels, Between the Lines andOff the Page. She lives in NewHampshirewithherhusbandandthreechildren.

JodiPicoult.com

Facebook.com/JodiPicoult

Twitter:@jodipicoult

Instagram:@jodipicoult

What’snextonyourreadinglist?

Discoveryournextgreatread!

Getpersonalizedbookpicksandup-to-datenewsaboutthisauthor.

Signupnow.