"That's an oddly karmic outlook."

"Don't tell her that. She'd put a knife to her own throat." Miriam mimes the slitting of her throat, her finger playing the role of knife. "Kkkkt! Kill the heretic."

"So how'd she react to the pregnancy?"

"I hid it for as long as I could. I just said I was getting fat, and that was a lie I couldn't back up, because I was barely eating enough for one, much less two. My belly swelled but the rest didn't, and so I ended up looking like one of those African kids on TV with flies crawling all over their bloated bellies."

"So she found out."

"She found out."

"And… what? She threw you out? She doesn't seem like the nicest mother."

Miriam takes a deep breath. "No. It was… totally the opposite. She changed, man. It's not that she became this sweet, adoring mother, but she really changed. She became more protective. She stopped with calling me names and blaming me for everything. She'd come into my room, check on me, see if I needed anything. Christ, she even made me foods I really liked. It was strange. I guess she figured you can't put the snakes back in the can. All that time she'd been treating me that way to stop me from making a mistake, and there I went ahead and made one anyway. Plus, maybe she really wanted a grandchild. Deep down, sometimes I wonder: maybe that's how she had me. Maybe that's why she was the way she was. Not that I'll ever know, of course."

"But…" Paul says. "You never had the child."

"Oh, I had him. He's been hiding behind your chair this whole time."

Paul actually looks.

"You're very gullible, Paul," she says. "No, I didn't have the baby."

"So, what happened? How did you lose the–" Beep beep beep. Paul's watch beeps. He lifts his wrist, and Miriam sees it's one of those old-school calculator watches.

"I didn't think anybody had those anymore," she says.

"I think I meant for it to be ironic," Paul explains. "Turns out, though, it's actually kind of useful. Who needs a Palm Pilot when you have an awesome calculator watch? Plus, it was, like, five bucks."

"Thrifty and practical, with a bad-ass calculator watch. Good for you. So what's with the alarm? Got a hot date?"

"Yeah," he says, lost in thought, but then he shakes his head. "Uh, though, it's totally not a hot date. I have to go to my mom's house, have dinner, explain to her for the thousandth time why I chose to go to college closer to Dad's house, even though it's only closer by, like, ten miles."

"Sounds like fun," Miriam says.

"Not really. We'll pick this up tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she lies. "Same time, same channel."

Paul clicks off his recorder and pockets it. He gives a wave, then an awkward handshake, and then he leaves Miriam alone.

She waits. Not long. Thirty seconds, maybe.