On and on, the back and forth of it. Every time, it became less guarded; every time, she took more risks. A selfie. A photo of her new running shoes. He sent photos of his clinic – he was showing off. He sent a voice message she could listen to time and again. Speaking to him as she was lying down was different than sitting or standing up. When they were both lying down, when they knew they were both lying down . . . Now that it started, it went on, even when Moni noticed that she was sneaking off to send voice messages, even when Iman noticed her excitement every time her phone flashed with the arrival of a new text. The guilt, if there had been any at the beginning, was trampled by repetition. Any awkwardness was ironed out. She became bolder in what she said. What she said she wanted. In theory of course, always in theory.

They exchanged secrets. He could trust her because she was far removed from his social circle. She did not know the people he rubbed against each day, the movers and shakers in his life. He told her of an incident he was ashamed of, an incident in which he had broken the law. He had not spoken to anyone about this. A week after he first opened his clinic, late one night after all the patients and receptionist had gone, two men came in. You will accompany us, they said. We are state security, they said. He went with them in their car. They blindfolded and handcuffed him but were extremely polite. The drive went on for miles. When the car stopped, and they uncovered his eyes, he saw with the first light of dawn that they had arrived at a villa in the middle of the desert. It had a wide garden and a spacious drive. There was a sprinkler in the garden. Inside, the furniture was new and expensive. He was led up the stairs to a bedroom with the television on at full blast, a singing competition. A woman in a nightdress was on the bed, tied up, obviously bruised, obviously pregnant. But he had not been brought here to tend to her wounds. You will bring the contents of her womb down, the men said.

When he said no, they held a gun to his head. They said, a shame you would die in such squalid conditions, in a bedroom in the arms of a whore. That’s the image your father and mother would carry for the rest of their lives. He had trained as a surgeon, not a gynaecologist, he had never performed an abortion before. Not even on a willing mother. This one fought him with all her strength. And the baby, a girl, was big enough to breathe, at least for a few minutes.