Almost as soon as that thought presented itself, though, another one subsumed it: at least one woman on this trip longed for a child she would perhaps never have. Hannah hadn’t shared any of her feelings on the subject with them over the last several years; instead, after an initial burst of optimism, she’d gone radio silent on all her failed efforts to have a baby. All the friends knew, however, that she and her husband had sunk an enormous amount of time and money and energy into the process. They could infer from the things Hannah didn’t say that she was losing hope. A flush warmed Compton’s cheeks at the thought of the casual way she sometimes bitched about her kids around Hannah.

Speaking of cheeks, she’d been staring at her own in the mirror for at least a full minute without registering a single detail of her appearance. She blinked, refocusing. Early in her forties, she’d retained her health and strength. Compton assessed her face dispassionately; she knew her features lacked the geometry necessary for objective beauty: her face too thin, her nose too sharp, her gums too prominent. But these flaws were most apparent in isolation. When viewed in combination with her green eyes and the fine angle of her jaw and the fullness of her lips, people tended to believe her attractive. Still, she battled the irritating mental urge to rearrange her features into a more alluring configuration; she knew she’d bought into the ridiculous and unfair societal objectification of the female face and yet she hadn’t quite evolved to the point where she was comfortable going out without makeup. Which was crap. She picked up her signature bloodred lipstick as banging sounded on the door. With five women sharing one bathroom, she’d been lucky to stay in here for more than thirty seconds without someone barging in.

It was Georgia. “Curtail your toilette, dude! I just drank three decaf espressos.”

Nudging the door open with her foot, Compton shrank against the tiny sink. “Come in. Do you want me to leave?”

“Nah,” said Georgia. “As a urologist, pee does not bother me.”

“I think the issue is whether or not it would bother me,” Compton said, but it was too late: Georgia had already taken advantage of the facilities. She finished with the toilet and yanked off her T-shirt and underwear, reaching for a towel only to discover they’d all been used. “Somebody fetch me a towel,” she bellowed as she stepped into the glass-walled shower, undisturbed by the fact that her naked ass was on display.

“Still here,” Compton said, pointing to herself. “Still standing right here.”

“Yes, I see that. Towel?”

Hannah appeared in the doorway, her broad forehead puckered with worry at the sound of the shower. “We’re supposed to leave in ten minutes.”