Sober now, she perceives the world as a sober place. Not hills and valleys but a plateau.

Still, she carries her (secret) weapon with her wherever she goes. Even to work, in a run-down urban neighborhood in Trenton, and even in the daytime, for (of course) she doesn’t remove the ice pick from the very bottom of her tote bag; most of the time she isn’t aware that it is there.

Not long ago something terrible had happened to a young woman, employee of a local hair salon, who’d gone for drinks at the Black Rooster with coworkers, was followed out of the tavern by an unidentified male patron, who came up behind her in the parking lot, struck her on the side of the head with his fist, and knocked her unconscious. He’d dragged her into a wooded area nearby, cut her clothing with a shears, and torn off her underwear, slashed her skin, “tortured” her with the shears, and left her for dead …

This was the third or fourth sexual assault against young women in the area since Juliana and Patrick moved to the mill town eighteen months before.

Juliana has read of the incidents, fascinated and repelled. All the young women have survived the attacks, but none have consented to be interviewed. If Juliana had gone to school here she would have a circle of friends and acquaintances who would know about these attacks—she would know someone in law enforcement, or at the hospital—but she’s an outsider, she has no access. All she knows is what the media has released.

Juliana does recall having read—No arrests have been made.

The cruelty of the world, to some young women. She, the pregnant fiancée, soon to be wife, is treated with tenderness by her devoted lover.

Patrick insists upon feeding her. In an iron skillet he sautés organic farm free-range chicken. Trout, salmon. Portobello mushrooms, red onions, peppers. He prepares rich soups—lentil, black bean, fish chowder. Juliana is ravenous with hunger when she sits down to eat, but after a few mouthfuls she has had enough, or more than enough.

Fatten her, stuff her. As if (in secret) Juliana is trying to lose weight, and so when they are together and Patrick is in charge, he must oversee her eating, make certain that she gains weight as it is normal for a pregnant woman to gain weight.

How many times this fall Juliana has driven past the Blue Moon Café on Front Street. Always slowly. It’s a kind of test, she realizes. Like walking a tightrope.

Though there is no likelihood that after so many months, and in her new delicate condition, she is likely to lapse.

Seeing now through the window that the Blue Moon is becoming crowded. Thursday evening, nearing six p.m.

Friday evening would be too crowded, rowdy. Saturday would be impossible. And earlier in the week, not so convivial. Thursday is the ideal weeknight for Juliana; inside there will be a companionable din of voices, laughter. Mostly men. If there are women in the Blue Moon, they will be with companions. Rarely alone.