Patrick tolerated my absence two winters ago, reheated batches of soup and other one-dish meals, took care of the kids on weekends while I marched and phoned and wrote and protested. He didn’t seem to require explanations or apologies, not like Evan King next door would have if Olivia had suddenly decided to be a poster girl against the administration. Patrick and I had an unspoken understanding of the direction our lives—my life—might steer if I stood silent.

Tolerance didn’t extend to those in charge, to the men Patrick works for.

There were rumblings, and they were much louder than mine.

One day, and I can point to it on a calendar (I often did during that first year after the counters went on), when the magnolias were pregnant with white stars, Patrick sent the children to bed early and led me out into the garden, under the canopy of trees.

“I’ve heard things at the office,” he said, holding me close, whispering. “The administration is discussing ways to shut you up.”

“Me?”

“All of you. So do me a favor and skip next week’s march on the Capitol. Let the other women go if they want, but hang out in your lab, Jean. The work you’ve done is too important, too—”

I slammed my palm into a nearby trunk, cutting him off. “And what exactly are they planning? Forced laryngectomies? Slicing out our tongues? Think about it, Patrick. You’re a scientist yourself. No one can shut half of the population up, not even that bastard you work for.”

“Listen, I know more than you do, Jean. Stay home with us this time.” Above us, a high wind whisked away the clouds. Patrick’s eyes, soft and moist, reflected the naked moon.

I didn’t march that weekend. Or any other.

The next day, though, I told my gynecologist, Dr. Claudia, what Patrick had told me. I told Lin and the women in my book club and my yoga instructor—everyone. The more I retold the warning, the more preposterous it sounded, like a bad science fiction tale, the kind of thing you see in movies. All gloom and doom, Dr. Claudia said. “Never gonna happen.”

Lin echoed this sentiment one day in her office. “Simple economics,” she said. “Imagine cutting the workforce in half”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that. Overnight.”

“Maybe we should go away,” I said. “Europe is better. I have a passport and I can get Patrick and the kids their own. We could—”

She cut me off. “And what are you going to do in Europe?”

I didn’t know. “We’ll think of something.”

“Look, Jean,” Lin said. “I hate the bastard. I hate all of them. But that Reverend Carl, he’s a joke. Take a long, hard look around this city. You see anyone who actually believes his bullshit?”

“My neighbor does.”