She asked me if we should get rid of it. If I was sure, she could manage, she thought, if I didn’t want to have the baby.

And I didn’t want to have the baby. But I didn’t want to get rid of it either. Get rid of it, like it was a thing. I got angry because she used those words. We argued. Her belly grew. We argued some more. Then it was too late.

Then there she was, the little child, pink and wrinkled up like a raisin, and the life I had had before suddenly felt like it had belonged to somebody else.

Morning sounds around us in the hall. Hushed voices, footsteps, the igniting of a cooker, a bed creaking as somebody got up.

I let Lou sleep. Her internal clock was turned upside down—she went to bed far too late in the evening. I had been so strict about the bedtime business before, back when there were things to show up for—work, school. But after the school closed, we started letting Lou stay up later. There was no reason not to.

I would straighten this out now. When Anna arrived, I would enforce a clearer schedule. Set bedtimes, set mealtimes. Maybe we could also practice reading a bit. Maybe there were books here. She had missed out on many months of school already.

Lou’s body twisted and she rolled over on her back. Her mouth opened, she was breathing rapidly, fearfully, her eyes were moving behind her eyelids. What does one dream about when one is a little girl who doesn’t know how life will turn out?

She whimpered loudly. “No . . .”

She twisted and turned again, her crying grew louder. It was so defenseless, so full of pain. The tears trickled out of her sleeping eyes.

“Don’t . . . stop . . .”

I leaned forward quickly and shook her.

“Lou. Lou?”

She turned away from me, still in the dream.

“You have to wake up, Lou.”

I took her child’s body, warm with sleep, into my arms, lifted her up. She resisted, as if she wanted to stay in there.

“Lou, please.”

I stroked her hair, dried the tears on her cheeks.

Finally her eyes fluttered open. She stared up at me. For a second she was far away, and then suddenly she sat up, ready to run.

“It’s burning, Daddy, it’s burning!”

“Lou, no.” I took hold of her. “No, sweetie, it was only a dream.”

“But it smells of smoke. I can smell it. We have to get out of here!” She turned toward her clothes, snatched up her shorts, started pulling them on.

I stood in front of her, bent my knees, so my face was level with hers. Gently I took hold of her shoulders.

“It’s not smoke, sweetie. There’s no fire.”

“But I can smell it!”

I sat down and pulled her up onto my lap, feeling how she tensed all her muscles.

I held her tight, spoke softly, “Take a whiff. What do you smell?”