The doctor was scribbling notes. He did not appear sympathetic. Gini was unsure whether that was because he viewed unmarried women with sleep problems as neurotic pests, or because his ballpoint was refusing to work properly. He shook it irritably.

“I—cry sometimes,” she went on, “for no reason at all. I’ll be in a grocery store, or just walking along the street, and—I can’t seem to control it. It just happens. I can’t stop.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Around two months.”

“What triggered it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Bereavement? Divorce? You lost your job?”

“No. I’m not married. I—”

She stopped. Bereavement: she tried the word in her mind. Perhaps that was the word she should use. Except no, bereavement implied the loss of someone you knew and loved—a mother, a father, perhaps. Could the deaths of strangers be described as bereavement? No, she decided, she could not use that word; she did not have the right.

“The weight loss is rapid. Anything else? Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Periods normal?”

“No. I haven’t had a period in four months. I’ve been—abroad, and they stopped while I was out there. But that can happen to me, it has before. If I’m working hard, if I’ve been under stress, and—”

“Abroad? Abroad where? Not India, Africa, anywhere like that?”

“No. I was in Eastern Europe.”

He lost interest at once. He was writing again. He wrote a “4,” and drew a circle around it. Over and over, above the noise of children and telephones, Gini could hear the rattle of machine-gun fire, the soft crunch of masonry falling. This happened sometimes, and it had to be controlled, because if it was not, those sounds would take her back to Mostar, back to that hospital ward, and back to a certain young boy there. She would remember his eyes. She gripped the arms of her chair tightly. She spelled out the words on the poster, letter by letter.

“You’ve been tested presumably?” The doctor glanced up.

“Tested?”

“You’ve had a pregnancy test?” He shot her a cold look, as if her stupidity irritated him. “I would assume you have, since you haven’t had a period in four months.”

“Yes, I have. While I was away—I had a test out there…” She hesitated, coloring. “As soon as I missed the first time, I went to a doctor, and—”

“That would be too soon. Didn’t you know that?”

“Yes. I suppose I did. It was just—I was eager to know, and…And anyway, I’ve tested myself since. Last month. This month. I bought those kits. In a pharmacy—”

She broke off. She could hear how odd and breathless her voice sounded. The room felt insufferably hot. The pen was still tapping. He looked at his watch.

“They were negative. I knew they would be. I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill. At least—I was on the pill. I stopped taking it when I returned to London.”

“Why?”

“Because I—well, I’m not sleeping with anyone in London…”

“That could change, presumably.”