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.

Eyes gliding over Juliana if she sits at the bar, curious. Do we know you?

It has begun to rain, suddenly. Neon in rain, dreamy and blurred, beautiful.

Patrick won’t be home yet, probably. Juliana can be a little late returning. If he calls her worriedly, she can answer her cell phone, reassure him she’s all right.

Thinking—Just this once. No harm to it.

Fated, without volition, seeing an empty parking space on Front Street near the Blue Moon. If she’d had to park in the rutted-gravel lot behind the café, she’d have driven home without stopping.

Club soda, she will order. Slice of lemon. Over ice cubes.

Her mouth is dry. Her mouth is parched. Hours on the phone, bright fluorescent lights at the law office, exhausting.