We texted constantly. Freya was open and funny. She felt like an elephant. She had terrible gas. She was horny but couldn’t stand to be touched. When the store was closed, we met for leisurely strolls or lunch at the Blue Heron. It was easier to meet on neutral territory. But one Saturday, Freya summoned me to her house on my lunch break.

“Can you come over? I’m so bored, but I’m too fat to get dressed.”

When Low skulked into the store at eleven, I took my leave. I didn’t tell her where I was going, but she knew. I could see it in her narrowed eyes, her tense posture. And like Low, I had no one else but Freya.

I’d picked up Buddha bowls for us, and Freya opened a bottle of rosé. “The baby’s basically cooked,” she said, as she poured herself a small glass. “A bit of wine won’t hurt it.” A May due date meant she was early into her third trimester. I’d read so many books on gestation that I would have abstained completely if I were expecting. But I wasn’t about to object. As close as I felt to her, I was still afraid of setting her off.

I tucked into my bowl of grains and greens. “Have you had a chance to talk to your doctor about a birthing plan?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s still time,” I said, keeping my tone light and breezy to hide my concern.

“There’s been a lot going on,” she said, sipping her wine. “With Max.”

Now that everything was out in the open, I didn’t have to feel awkward and sweaty at the mention of his name, but for some reason, I still did. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, in as casual a tone as I could muster.

“He’s been fighting.”

“With whom?”

“Anyone who wants to take him on,” Freya said. “When he’s away with the boys, they go out to bars. He’s always been a target. The tough guy. The guy who killed Ryan Klassen. But now, he instigates things. And then he doesn’t fight back. He lets himself be beaten. He wants to be physically punished for what he did.”

The black eye I’d seen that day in the restaurant made sense now. And, perhaps, the puckered scar on his chest. . . . “Has he talked to someone? A therapist?”

“He’s not that kind of guy,” Freya said as she chewed. “Even if he were, this backwater is sorely lacking in mental-health services.”

I knew that to be true. But Max traveled frequently; he could find help on the mainland. This sounded serious. I was about to offer this suggestion when Freya spoke.

“How can he be a good father when he hates himself so much?”