Melissa had overplayed her hand. She’d demanded to be let out, insisting that she couldn’t believe anything while locked up in whatever godforsaken space It had trapped her inside. As a result, It had left, promising to return when she’d calmed down and was more ready for rational conversation. It would clean up the urine then, too, so the smell wouldn’t attract rats.

The threat could not have been more clear.

Her arm was tired from the repetitive motion of drumming on the faucet. She stopped and sat back on the toilet seat, thinking of her next move, tearing up as one failed to materialize. In her head, she heard a voice telling her that she had a purpose, that life wasn’t over. She just needed to give herself time.

The advice came from a memory. She and Imani had been at the local swim club, watching their first graders dolphin kick while a swim coach explained in a thick Russian accent the necessity of a good butterfly. Years later, Ava had told her that she hadn’t understood all the animal analogies and had partially believed that she might metamorphosize if she only kicked hard enough. Melissa had found the revelation both hilarious and heartwarming. There was something wonderful about being so new to the world that magic seemed not only possible, but also everywhere.

That day, though, she hadn’t had much faith in anything, let alone transformation. Imani had been nursing Jay in public, unaware of how painful it was for Melissa to glimpse his little mouth latched on to her dark nipple, of the hot rush of liquid that filled Melissa’s own breasts at the sight. Her baby had been too small to suckle. Too tiny to do anything but die. Melissa had still been tearing up unexpectedly, even though seven months had passed since she’d lost her child—even though she’d been mourning for longer than she’d been pregnant.

Imani had seen something on her face and asked what was wrong. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Melissa had explained. “I mean, I know I’m supposed to take care of Ava, but other than that, what? Work? Nobody wants a postpartum actress twenty pounds overweight. I’d had all these plans for the next few years of my life, and they’d all involved being a mom to a baby. But that’s not going to happen.”

Melissa had said similar things to other people in her life. Her sister. Friends from past theater productions. Her gynecologist. All had suggested ways to solve her problem: adoption, fostering, surrogacy, medical advances that might repair her broken uterus. She didn’t need to keep mourning, they’d subtly suggested. Replacing a baby was eminently possible.