“You’ll have it,” Dr. Goldberg promises, rising to his feet as well. Turning toward me, he says, “At least this explains something.”

“Explains what?” I stand up too, uncomfortable being the only one sitting.

“Your persistent nightmares and panic attacks.” The doctor gives me a sympathetic look. “It’s not uncommon for pregnancy hormones to amplify anxiety, particularly in the wake of traumatic events.”

“Oh.” I stare at him. “So I’m not just overreacting to what happened?”

“You’re not,” Dr. Goldberg assures me. “Depression and anxiety can happen to pregnant women with much less provocation. You do need to take it easy and relax as much as possible, though, both for your sake and that of the baby. Acute stress during pregnancy can lead to all sorts of complications, including a miscarriage.”

“I will make sure she rests and doesn’t stress.” Julian reaches for me again, intertwining his fingers with mine. It’s as if he can’t bear not to touch me today. “What about food, drinks?”

“I’ll give you a list of what to avoid,” Dr. Goldberg says. “You probably know about alcohol and caffeine, but there are a few more things, like sushi and seafood high in mercury.”

“All right.” Julian turns his head to look at me. “Baby, would you be okay with the doctor examining you now and removing the implant?” His voice is unusually soft, his gaze filled with indefinable emotion.

“Um, sure.” I see no reason to procrastinate, and I like that Julian asked, instead of just ordering the examination in his usual autocratic manner.

“Good.” He lifts my hand—the one he’s holding—and presses a kiss to the back of my wrist before letting it go. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

I nod, and Julian quietly exits the room, closing the door behind him.

“All right, Nora.” Dr. Goldberg smiles at me, reaching for his bag and pulling out latex gloves. “Shall we begin?”

After the doctor leaves, I change into a swimsuit and go to the back porch, grabbing my Psychology textbook on the way. Pregnancy or not, I have an exam to study for, and I’m determined to do so—if for no other reason than to distract myself from the situation. My arm once again sports a tiny, Band-Aid-covered wound, and I try to ignore the faint ache there, not wanting to focus on the fact that my birth control implant is gone… and the reason why.

It’s strange, but the broken feeling of last night is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a kind of distant hurt. I should probably be traumatized and angry at Julian, but I’m not. Like the days right after my abduction, last night feels like it belongs to a different era, to a time before we became who we are. I know I’m playing that game with myself again—the one where I exist solely in the moment and push all the bad stuff into a separate corner of my brain—but I need that game to stay sane.