The counselor's office was every bit as cramped as Hannah's small space at Travis High, but this one lacked all personality as well: no original artwork, no artwork of any kind, not even a poster declaring the right to choose. The walls were a yellowish white, and the longer Hannah looked at them, the queasier she felt. The counselor was busy behind her desk, studying the dog-eared calendar in front of her. It was already four o'clock, but she seemed in no particular hurry. Hannah's discomfort grew. In the first few minutes of the meeting, they'd introduced themselves. The counselor's name was Maureen Fulcher. They'd established that Hannah was about seven weeks pregnant, that the doctor's examination confirmed this. They'd agreed on a number of other facts as well: that this was Hannah's first pregnancy, that she was married, about to turn forty, and nearing the end of her childbearing years. Ms. Fulcher had ticked these facts off one after another, reading from the notes in Hannah's file. Now, they seemed out of things to talk about.

Being on the other side of the desk made Hannah anxious, and with nothing else to contemplate, she resorted to critiquing the clothes, manners, and social graces of the counselor. The fashion police would throw the book at her, Hannah thought. What need for paintings? Ms. Fulcher herself was the decoration. She wore a jacket that might have been cut from a discarded bedspread, printed with enormous pink and purple lilies, and quilted, of course. Her cheeks were splotched with blush, her lips turned up in a stubborn, unfriendly smile. An Avon lady, that's what she looked like, a ridiculous woman who would try to push her way into your house, regardless of how many times you told her no.

Hannah took a deep breath, and for a blessed few seconds, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the counselor was studying Hannah. Her gaze was intense. "Just resting my eyes," Hannah explained. "Long day."

"What's on your mind, Dr. Solace?" Ms. Fulcher asked. She was no longer smiling.

Hannah faltered then decided to get to the point. "Well, I've been sitting here for nearly fifteen minutes and we haven't accomplished much. I do a lot of counseling myself and..." She sounded childish, she knew she did. Erica Faber would have been ashamed of her. "I'm sorry," she said, rushing ahead: "I'm sorry for my tone, I'm sorry for my attitude, but most of all, I'm sorry to be here."

"You and most everyone else who walks through the door," Ms. Fulcher replied. She closed the calendar and folded her hands on top of it. "Good," she said evenly. "That gives us someplace to begin. Is it fair to say, then, that you're sorry to be pregnant?"

Hannah uncrossed her legs and put both feet squarely on the ground. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is. I don't want to be sorry, but I am."

"How sorry are you? Sorry enough to end the pregnancy?"

Hannah thought carefully before nodding. "I think so," she said.

Ms. Fulcher sighed. "I often talk to women about their options, but you know your options, don't you?"

"Yes," Hannah said, "but I don't much care for them. None of them seem the sort of thing I would do. My sister is the mothering type, but I'm not. On the other hand, I'm not the sort to dispose of my problems, or to turn them over to others. There, listen to me. I'm talking about this pregnancy as a problem, something to solve. I think that's indicative, don't you?" She paused to take a breath, then went gingerly on. "I guess I was hoping you'd tell me something to make me feel differently."

Ms. Fulcher offered a new smile, lips pressed together and turned up, patient, long-suffering. "I don't know what it would be. If you were a young girl, maybe, but you've been around the block a few times already, Dr. Solace. It's not likely that I'll tell you anything new."

Carl had said this same thing last week about the vet: "He's not going to tell you anything new, Hannah." And that had been true in a way. The vet hadn't said anything new, but he'd forced Hannah to hear something she hadn't heard before. Maybe that's what she wanted now, for Ms. Fulcher to redirect her attention, force her to focus. But the counselor was right. It didn't seem likely to happen.

"We rarely see first pregnancies in a woman your age," Ms. Fulcher continued. "You must have been very surprised."

"I was," Hannah said. Surprised did not really cover it. She couldn't think of a word that began to describe the barrage of emotions -- anger, fear, sadness, and behind all that, a peculiar and piercing joy that caught Hannah completely off-guard. If there were one thing she knew by now, it was the arbitrary and mysterious nature of emotions. She could not imagine making a decision based on them. Emotions were like vapors rising over a marsh. You breathed them in, you breathed them out, allowing them to pass over and through you. "My sister thinks it's fate," Hannah told Ms. Fulcher. So far as Hannah could tell, Helen made all her decisions on the basis of emotions.

"And what do you think?"

"I don't believe in fate," she said, though that wasn't entirely true. She didn't believe in fate when it hurt, when it took someone away from her, when it forced her into a corner. Like anyone else, she was ready enough to believe in fate when it seemed to bring her happiness.

Ms. Fulcher consulted the notes on her desk. "And your husband," she went on, "does he believe in fate?"

Hannah had underestimated Ms. Fulcher. "Carl? Well, I suppose he does." She hesitated, her eyes on the blank wall. "But he doesn't know about the pregnancy. I haven't told him."

"But you're going to tell him?" A little prod. "You had to make sure it was real first, right?" Hannah glanced up at her, startled. Had she told this woman about all the tests, that she had one in her purse right now? If only she'd had time to consult it, she might not be here. Ms. Fulcher's pink and purple lilies swam before Hannah's eyes. She could hardly see. Old, blind, and pregnant. "Listen to me, Hannah." The kind voice came from a great distance, but it reached her. "It's real," Maureen Fulcher said. "Nearly two months real."