He stares at Ify for a dazed second before letting out a full-bellied chuckle. “Yes. Of course. Not indestructible.” His chuckle turns into a string of cackles. “Of course. Of course.” His voice grows softer, filled with awe. “I thought I would never see again. After the things I had seen, I thought I never wanted to see anything, but I can see. Thank God, I can see. God is good all the time!”

Ify smiles, even as tears fill her eyes. “And all the time, God is good.”

Tears spill down the man’s cheeks. “Will . . . will crying damage the retinas too?”

Ify takes the man’s hand in hers. “No, Mr. de Freitas. It is okay to cry,” she says, as though she’s giving herself permission as well.

Maybe Grace was right. Maybe this thing happening right now—the same thing Ify witnessed when the Cantonese woman had motioned Grace close and whispered lovingly into her ear about the food market—maybe this thing is important too.

■  ■  ■  ■  ■

The bot sits unactivated in its slot on the wall of the bathroom stall as Ify removes her menstrual cup and deposits it into the bin that sterilizes them. Most have the bot conduct the entire process automatically while they recline and read or let their mind wander. But Ify prefers to do it herself.

When she’s finished, she leaves and heads to the sink to wash her hands. But just as the water begins to sluice through her fingers, she hears whimpering. The water stops, and Ify listens for a moment to whoever is crying in the stall two down from her own. Then she moves her hands, and the water pours from the faucet again, drowning out the sound.

A few seconds later, Grace appears at the sink next to her, checking her face in the mirror, wiping away tear streaks, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. She gives Ify a perfunctory nod and a swift “Doctor” before she begins washing her hands.

Ify moves her hands to the air dryer next to the sink, then wipes the remaining water away. She should leave, but she doesn’t. Something keeps her there as Grace works to put herself together.

“Doctor?” Grace asks, her hands clean and dried.

“Yes, Grace?”

Grace looks Ify in the eye, and the grief is still there, despite her efforts to wash it away. “Why did you choose this work? Why this?”