I entertain a wicked fantasy: Nick’s face in that instant before negative. Or positive, in which case, he wouldn’t sigh. He might hold his breath, and I’d have to remind him to inhale, and he might say, “How did this happen?” Then, God, the thoughts that would run through his head. He’d look at me, thinking, Did I get it from this nice man’s wife? Then, Did I give it to her? Following that line of reasoning: Have I put this nice man at risk? Dr. Hart, his dear, sweet host who took him in and fed him and let him seduce Mrs. Hart on the sly. If he heard positive, he would tell Elizabeth, and she would tell me, and then, oh boy, the depth of disaster.

Or maybe he would try to sneak her to an anonymous clinic to get tested. By the time they both heard negative, the ordeal would have woken them up, spoiled their fun. Elizabeth would send Nick away, because she would see, at last, the potential consequences of her transgressions and how close they’d brought her to losing me. She’d salvage her devotion, and she’d grovel, and we’d thrive.

Or, bypassing scenarios one and two altogether, Nick might up and leave town without saying why. Somewhere very far from here—in, say, Alaska, at another camp for damaged boys—Nick would seek care, and he’d be so relieved to hear negative that he wouldn’t blame me for a chemical quirk. False positive results do happen, the other doctor or nurse would say. They do happen. It’s true.

The timer dings. Twenty minutes flew right by.

I lift the vial, hold it high, squint to read the strip: Negative.

I hear myself release a tiny breath.

Well then. A relief. I drop the swab in my pocket and skim the contents of Nick’s questionnaire before throwing it away. He offered details on diet but not bowel movements. He gets the hiccups and has hay fever, but no food allergies or acid reflux. He trips and falls sometimes because, as he wrote in the blank, he is clumsy, not injured. Of course not. His joints are well-lubricated and young. Arthritis is years away. I fold the questionnaire and slip it into my lab coat pocket and head back to Exam Room Four, where I take a seat at the corner desk, crossing my legs, propping up my clipboard so Nick can’t see the blank page. I glance at my patient—my violator: hazardous waste—whose vulnerability is almost worth my pity. I see him clearly: the object of my wife’s desire. The sum total of her temptation: six foot, one-hundred-seventy pounds, BMI of twenty-one, no allergies, occasional hiccups, insomnia, regular exercise. Spoiled rotten with the passive riches of youth. The love of my life would betray me for this.