Sam and Monica exchange looks. “That’s mine, actually,” she says. “But they’re printing out a second copy. They just had an issue with the printer.”

“Oh.” I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that if there’s only one copy, why does Monica get to keep it? After all, it’s our baby. “Our” meaning mine and Sam’s.

Before I can get worked up, the receptionist calls out, “Mrs. Johnson?”

Monica smiles at us and walks over to the reception table, where the woman is holding another set of images. She hands them over to Monica. “Here’s an extra copy for your husband.”

“Thank you,” Monica says.

“Enjoy! And congratulations, you two!”

Wonderful. This woman just referred to Sam as Monica’s husband and nobody felt a need to correct her. The best thing I can say about Sam is he’s looking down at the images of the baby and not really paying attention. He probably didn’t hear the receptionist call him Monica’s husband. But still.

Monica flashes us both a big smile. She’s wearing lipstick again. She’s been wearing makeup a lot more lately, and dressing less like a nun. Today she’s wearing a low-cut black blouse that clings to her breasts. And of course, she’s still barely showing.

“We should celebrate,” she says. “How about coffee?”

“I’ve got to get back to work,” I mutter.

She doesn’t seem surprised or perturbed by my refusal. “What about you, Sammy?”

No. She didn’t just ask my husband out for coffee without me. That didn’t really just happen. And why is she still calling him Sammy?

“Um,” Sam says, glancing in my direction, “I actually also need to get back to work.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I thought you said you were done for the day?”

“Done with classes.” He smiles awkwardly. “But I’ve got, you know, research.”

“Oh, really? What sort of research?” she asks with what appears to be genuine interest.

Sam brightens the way he always does when someone asks him about his research, which doesn’t happen too often in social situations. “I’m studying random integral matrices and the universality of surjectivity and the cokernel.”

She looks thoughtful. Did she actually understand that? “So what specifically about the cokernal?”

“Well,” he says, “I’m looking at the probability that the cokernel is isomorphic to a given finite abelian group.”

“And how about when it’s cyclic?”

He nods eagerly. “Yes! That too.”

“Wow, that sounds fascinating,” she says. “I would love to hear more about it.”

Sam glances at me again. I can tell he’s dying to talk to her more about this, but he doesn’t want to upset me. “Abby,” he says, “are you sure you don’t have time for a quick coffee?”