I have no idea what to say to this, so I push all the pain somewhere dark, to be taken out and dealt with later, to feel the sting on my own, in my private time. For now, Patrick doesn’t need to know about the baby. “What will you do?”

“I said I’ll figure out something.” The V that I didn’t think could deepen further does just that.

“Like what? You know what they’re planning, don’t you? A new serum, a goddamned water-soluble serum. How long do you think we’ll last in Italy—or anywhere—before the whole goddamned world turns Pure Blue?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

But I do. I don’t need Patrick and his political insight to tell me what I already know. All those smiles and nods and How about some coffee, Jean? in Morgan’s office aren’t fooling me. I’m as disposable as an empty lipstick tube, or I will be the moment we test the new serum. The lab will keep me on, for a while, until we’ve established a successful track record, until they’re sure I’m no longer needed. It will happen like this:

I’ll be in my office, maybe seated at the desk with no phone, maybe standing at the wall that should have a window but doesn’t. Morgan will knock at the door, only a perfunctory little rap, because I can’t prevent him from entering, from penetrating my space. My office door is lacking a lock.

“Dr. McClellan,” Morgan will say, possibly stressing the title, either because he’s tired of having to use it or because he’s relieved he won’t have to use it anymore. “Would you please come with me?”

This will not be an invitation.

We’ll walk down the corridor of offices, Morgan stretching his short legs to keep one pace in front of me. Whether this is a gesture of leadership, or whether he doesn’t want to look me in the eye, I won’t know, but I’ll guess it has something to do with both.

I’ll ask Morgan where we’re going. Another meeting? Did he find a flaw in the serum? What I’ll want to say, but won’t, is I’m next, aren’t I?

If I leave now with Lorenzo, I’ll become Grazia Francesca Rossi. I’ll shop in fruit markets and at butchers’, visit my parents, make love to a man who’s my husband on paper only. One day, maybe in a few weeks or months, after I’ve come back from a pleasant walk around the streets of old Rome, I’ll have a glass of water in my own kitchen, as I’m doing now.

Jackie’s words come back to me, trite but true.

It all ends, Jeanie. Sooner or later.

“Water,” I say to Patrick.