It was a Fatal Foetal Abnormality, she says. They were told the baby wouldn’t survive outside the womb.

Alrighty, Pastor Rick says. So did we talk about the joy of holding your own baby, however briefly that is? Did we mention donating any functioning organs to others who so desperately need them?

Yeah, no, she says. I actually didn’t manage to get that far.

Pastor Rick frowns. He has a GoPro camera strapped to his chest, in case of misunderstanding or assault, and to edit into a film of the trip for folks back home.

GoPro off, he says. When the little light goes out, he says, Hey, go get a soda.

I’m fine, she starts to say, but he holds up a finger.

There’s a shopping mall right across the way. Take a breather, grab a soda and a bite to eat. He produces a note from his pocket, like a magic trick. On me.

She takes it. Thank you, she says. Okey-dokey.

You’re doing great, kiddo, he adds. Jet lag can be a doozy.

In the mall, she buys a Pepsi Max and some fries, and sits at a table stirring the ice. The two old ladies at the table next to her are eating burgers with polite, meticulous bites and discussing the vote. She should jump in, introduce herself, ask them how they’re planning on voting. Every encounter, every opportunity, counts. She drinks her soda too fast instead and her sinuses ache. 74

Summer afternoons after Bible camp, pooling their quarters and nickels and debating which flavour slushie to go for. The boy with the brown hair at the slushie stand they all had a crush on. Daring each other to ask him if the bubblegum had made your tongue go blue. How freaked out they’d have been if he’d ever responded, in any way. Knowing the pure, sacred temple of your body was saved for your husband and the children you’d make within. How cool would it be, Steve said, if your first-ever kiss was at the altar, beneath the eyes of God. Which, actually, didn’t make sense considering God saw everything anyway.

She stands up. She hasn’t touched the fries but she should be getting back.