“Are you from Barrens, too?”

I look up to see the only other woman in the waiting room watching me, rocking a quiet baby in her arms.

“Chicago,” I say forcefully.

“Oh. My bad. I thought I recognized you is all.” If she notices that the question has annoyed me, she doesn’t let it bother her for long. She shrugs.

“I went to Barrens High,” I say, without elaborating or explaining that I also went to Barrens elementary and middle schools.

“I thought so! You were two years above me! My name’s Shariah Dobbs,” she says. Then, indicating the baby in her arms, “I would stand up, but…”

“That’s all right. Abby.” I’m suddenly ashamed of my bag sitting on the seat next to me—four hundred dollars, bought at Neiman Marcus with my first paycheck and way more than I could afford, but still—and of my boots and jeans. All of it is chosen to armor me precisely against the question she first asked. Are you from Barrens, too?

But seeing her moon-shaped face, her cheap skirt and knockoff sneakers, and the unselfconscious way she looks me over—both cheerful and sympathetic, as if she knows exactly what I think of her and doesn’t hold it against me—makes me curdle with guilt.

I stand up and come closer to coo over her baby, so swaddled that from a distance it might be a folded T-shirt. “Boy or girl? How old?”

“Boy. His name is Grayson. Twelve months.” She starts to peel the blanket back from his face and then, unexpectedly, her face clouds. “The doctors at the clinic have been so helpful. At first everyone told me he would just grow into it…”

I’m about to ask her what she means when she flips back the blanket and I suck in a breath. The baby is small, way too small, and his skull looks soft and malformed. His forehead is barely there at all. It’s as if his eyebrows run straight into his scalp.

“No one knows if he’ll be able to talk, even,” she says, in a quiet voice. “Bad luck, I guess. But he’s a good baby,” she adds quickly. “He’s my baby boy, and I don’t care what anyone says. I did everything like they told me to, I quit smoking and even took those vitamins they gave me…” She covers his face again and looks at me sideways, as if she expects me to accuse her of something.

“You still live in Barrens?” I ask, and she nods.

“Over in Creekside.” Her face flushes. Creekside is a trailer park—directly on the lip of the reservoir, within sight of the plant. “I’m still with my mom. My sister and her husband just moved back, right next door, so they help a lot.” Her face clears and she smiles. “My sister’s pregnant, too. So Grayson’ll have a little cousin soon enough.”

Before I can respond, the door opens and Dr. Aster appears with one hand hooked around my father’s elbow. My dad stumps forward, digging his cane into the carpet, looking more like his old self than at any time since I’ve been home.