“No. It’s next week or never. I have a test on Monday and should have the results by midweek.”

“And?”

And here, in this crab shack that smells of sweat and semen and love, I make my decision.

“If it’s a girl, I’ll go with you. As soon as you want.”

He waits, watching me dress and comb out my hair. He waits an eternity before speaking. Then he pulls me close, whispering into my ear. “Okay, Gianna. Okay.” His voice sounds strong, but I know he’s praying to a god neither of us believes in that the genetic analysis comes back as a double X. A baby girl.

“Come on,” I say. “We need to get back. I’ll go first.”

The air is cooler now, and the few spare vacation houses cast shadows where, when I arrived at the shack, there were none. I click open the Honda, climb in, and think about what I would pray for—a boy or a girl. Stay or leave. Watch Sonia taken away from me, or, in a marginally more pleasant scenario, watch while some uniformed male nurse, following orders, injects her with a concoction that will take all her words away, forever. I don’t think I could stand it either way.

I pray to a god I don’t believe in for a girl, so I don’t have to witness any of this. And I pray to that same god for a boy, so I never have to leave my Sonia.

Chapter Fifty-four

FIFTY-FOUR

Lin has not made an appearance today, the soldiers at the security checkpoint tell me as they pat me down for a third time.

“No, ma’am,” one says. He’s the same spit-polished youngster who frisked me when I left. The name above his left breast pocket is PETROSKI, W.

“I need to see Morgan,” I say.

“Who?”

“Dr. LeBron.” Calling him “Dr.” anything brings a nasty taste of bile to my mouth. He doesn’t deserve the title.

Sergeant Spit-and-Polish Petroski checks my bag, even though it’s already been X-rayed, and nods to his partner. After two rings, Morgan picks up.

“What?” he says.

The soldier picks up my key card, turning it over in his hands, reading my name. “Dr. McClellan says she needs to see you.”

“Tell her I’m busy.”

That strident voice, as squeaky as a lab rat’s, pierces the air between the soldier and me. It’s how I think of Morgan, as a rat, a foul and vicious, but not too bright, creature.

“Tell him we’re about to check on the mice,” I say to the soldier. “But I want to brief him first.”

Again, the squeak, this time tinged with a thin hopefulness, says, “Send her up. With an escort.”