Finally, the next day, Anthony answered with his usual distracted gruffness. “Hello?” His voice set something off in her; her body flushed with adrenaline the way it did when her car hit black ice last winter, and for a few seconds—seconds that might as well have stretched into days—she thought for sure she’d end up in a ditch.

“It’s Ann.” Her hand shook as she held the receiver.

He paused, as if he had to mentally scroll through all the possible women named Ann who might call him. “Ann,” he said. “Ann, Ann. How’s Wisconsin?”

What a stupid question. “I’m pregnant.” It was the first time she’d said those words out loud to another person. They sounded leaded. Permanent.

She could hear him breathing into the phone, saying nothing. His breath—she remembered the sound of it in her ear, heavy and wet. That night she’d tried so hard to forget might as well have been happening all over again.

“Are you waiting for me to congratulate you? It’s not mine,” he said. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It could only be yours.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t have time? I told you I was a virgin. You are the only person I’ve—who’s—the only one. Believe me, if I thought it was someone else’s kid I wouldn’t contact you.”

“Oh, come on. You were no virgin.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Besides, I had a vasectomy.”

“That’s a lie!” Ann wished she could kick him. She’d never felt such rage. “You are lying, but I don’t care. I know I can prove it.”

Was Maureen within hearing distance? The thought made Ann feel sick.

“What do you want?”

What did she want? She wanted to feel less alone, less scared. For Anthony to be the man she thought he was when she first met him. To go back in time and burn that babysitting ad she’d posted on the bulletin board. She was so low at that moment that she even wished he could make it so she’d never been born.

“How much does an abortion cost these days?”

Ann was shocked by the coldness in his voice.

“It’s too late.”

Ann banged the back of her head against the Third Eye Blind poster on her wall. She looked at the track trophies that lined her bookshelves, the framed corkboard pinned with ribbons and concert tickets and photos with her friends on hayrides and waterskiing and late nights at Ma Fischer’s. She looked at the pile of college brochures from Harvard and Boston College and Amherst, schools that wouldn’t want her now, and even if they did, how could she possibly make college work, or at least college so far from home?

“How far along?” he said.