Her eyes tightly shut, Vinca huddled in her bed, her long red hair almost invisible beneath the white quilt that reflected the snowy sky. I walked over, brushed her cheek, and laid a hand on her forehead. She was feverish. Without opening her eyes, she mumbled a few words. I decided to let her sleep while I rummaged in the bathroom for something to reduce the fever. The medicine cabinet was stuffed with sleeping pills, tranquilizers, powerful painkillers, and an assortment of other pills, but I couldn’t see any paracetamol.

I had stepped out of her room, intending to knock on the door at the end of the corridor, when Fanny Brahimi’s face appeared.

“Hey, Thomas,” she said, taking off her glasses.

She was wearing ripped jeans, a battered pair of Converse sneakers, and a baggy mohair sweater. Thick mascara blotted out the pale beauty of her eyes. The goth makeup went well with the Cure album on her record player.

“Hey, Fanny, I need a hand.”

I explained the situation and asked if she had any paracetamol. While Fanny went to look, I lit her little gas stove and put some water on to boil.

“I found some Doliprane,” she said when she reappeared.

“Thanks. Could you make Vinca some tea?”

“Yeah, lots of sugar so she doesn’t get too dehydrated. I’m on it.”

I went back to Vinca’s room. She opened her eyes and propped herself up on her pillow.

“Take these,” I said, handing her two tablets, “you’re burning up.”

Though she wasn’t delirious, she was in a bad way. When I asked her why she had phoned, she burst into tears. Even feverish, haggard, and bathed in tears, Vinca was powerfully attractive; she had an ineffable dreamlike aura. Like the pure, crystalline sound of a celesta in a 1970s folk song.

“T…Thomas…” she stammered.

“What is it?”

“I’m a terrible person.”

“Come on. Why would you say that?”

She leaned over to the bedside table and picked up something I thought at first was a pen and then realized was a pregnancy test.

“I’m pregnant.”

As I looked at the little blue bar indicating a positive result, I remembered fragments of Alexis’s letter that had revolted me: Soon we will raise our own family. Our child will seal our twin fates forever. Our child will be blessed with your angelic smile, your silvery eyes.

“You’ve got to help me, Thomas.”

I was too shocked to realize what she was asking me to do.

“I didn’t want to, you know…I never wanted to,” she stuttered.

I sat next to her on the bed, and between ragged sobs, she whispered, “It’s not my fault! Alexis forced me.”

Stunned, I asked her to repeat what she’d said.

“Alexis forced me. I didn’t want to sleep with him!”