The name Sylvia Emerich floated to the surface of her mind. She’d been trapped by a baby, Sylvia Emerich of Apple Creek. Forced to leave school because she’d been trapped by her baby. Men made a whole lot of noise about women “trapping” them into marriage, but women were the ones getting trapped. By men, by their own bodies. Boy, the women who weren’t saddled with a kid were sure lucky, weren’t they? That Flora Parker at the Building & Loan had been lucky. When there was no baby, you could just steal two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and run away, leave all your troubles (and your husband) behind. And the trash ran away with the spoon.

Vivian’s lipstick had been wiped away over an hour ago with her dinner napkin, but the toilet paper she tossed into the trash bin was still smeared with mascara, Pan-Cake, and pink rouge. The face she tried to show the world, all messily smeared onto strips of soggy tissue.

She avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she stood over the sink, struggling to pry the lid off the bottle of sleeping pills. It had always been a stubborn bottle, and her hands were already shaking from being so tired and upset. The word “prying” ran over and over in her mind, as she twisted and pulled at the lid, like the word itself would help it come off. Prying. Prying. Goddammit, come off! Her hands began to cramp and she felt a new wave of tears building up behind her eyes just as the lid gave way.

The release of the lid snapped something in Vivian’s brain, and she stared into the mouth of the bottle. Prying. Still holding the bottle in one hand, the lid in the other, she moved back to the closed toilet seat and sat down again, feeling like a foggy film had been peeled from her mind. She rested for a few moments, then gave another sniff. A determined sniff.

Vivian stood again and went to the sink, setting the lid of the sleeping pill bottle next to the soap dish. She looked at the bottle, then shook out two pills and popped them onto the back of her tongue. She twisted the Cold faucet on, and then swept a handful of tap water into her mouth. She wanted to be fast asleep by the time Edward came to bed.

As she lay there tucked under the covers and turned on her side, away from Edward’s side of the bed, and waiting for the sleeping pills to do their job, she pointed and flexed her toes like she was kick-paddling through the bedsheets, with the word singsonging in her head. Pry . . . (point, flex) . . . ing (point, flex). Pry . . . (point, flex) . . . ing (point, flex). She’d put it off long enough. She scrunched her face up, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as they’d go so the tears wouldn’t start again, and then blew out a tired gust of breath in defeat. She’d have to go see Mr. McAfee this week.