“We don’t have insurance,” says Nathan. “We believe in the NHS.”

Hannah leans over Nathan, sweeps the paper into her bag. “Thank you,” she says.

“So—if you decide to go ahead, please make an appointment with my secretary and we can get you started right away.”

“Wait,” says Nathan. “Han—don’t you need time? To recover? Hannah’s just had a round of IVF. She’s exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” says Hannah. “And I can speak for myself.”

“Of course”—Dr. Gilani spreads his large hands—“if you’d rather wait. But every month that you wait, of course, is a month that—”

“No,” says Hannah. “I’d rather not wait.”

Nathan is looking out of the window, his jaw clenched. “Thank you, Dr. Gilani. You’ve been very helpful.”

Dr. Gilani presses their hands in his.

Nathan walks in front of her down the staircase, but does not stop at the receptionist’s desk. Instead he pushes his way out onto the street. By the time Hannah catches up with him he is around the corner, halfway through rolling a cigarette.

“When did you start smoking?”

“Recently. And I haven’t started smoking.”

“What’s this then?”

“A cigarette.”

“Were you smoking? Last cycle?”

“No, Hannah. I wasn’t. But now I’d quite like a cigarette.” He lights up. She stares at him. The traffic roars. It is a gray, polluted day.

“I can’t believe you,” she says.

“What can’t you believe, Hannah?”

She casts her hand towards him.

“Oh. I disgust you, do I? Well, this”—he waves his cigarette at their surroundings—“disgusts me. All these doctors making thousands, millions out of people’s desperation. This is a street of quacks. You might as well go and throw seven thousand pounds down a wishing well for all the good it will do.”

“Really?”

“Really. They’re fucking faith healers, Han.”

“What about the children on that wall? They exist. Because of this doctor.”

“They might have existed anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything. Neither do you. Neither does Doctor fucking Gilani. No one does. Because the human body is a mystery. Because fertility is a fucking mystery, Han.”

“There are things you can do . . .”

“We’ve been doing them. We’ve been doing every single one of those things, Hannah. For months. For years. We still don’t have a baby.”

“I’ve been doing them. I’ve been doing those things. What have you done, Nath? Tell me. What?”

He looks at her, takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “I’m sorry, Hannah, I really am. I want you to know that I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.”

“What? What can’t you do?”

“This,” says Nathan.

“What does this mean?”

He throws the cigarette out into the street where cars growl at the traffic lights, and shakes his head.