“Here is the table,” he says. Here is where he’ll perform his last abortion. They’re illegal in Kenya, but he’s quitting soon. He’s not really a doctor, he explains. A year of college. Some biology. He knows how to do abortions. He’ll do just one more. “Just for the money,” he says. He’s getting married, to the mother of his three children, a proper wedding. He’s been saving a long time. For a proper wedding, in a Catholic church. It’s what she wants. He wants it for her.

They took a marriage class. The priest talked about abortion. A threat to marriage, said the priest, a threat to the nation. The abortionist did not tell the priest what he does for a living. Now he keeps a Bible by his abortion table. “Just one more,” he says. You can watch, he tells me. I don’t want to.

The patient doesn’t come. A sign? No. There will be another. “Just one more,” he says. “It’s a sin,” he explains.

“Mortal sin,” I say. According to his church, that is.

“ ‘Mortal’?” He doesn’t know this English word. “Spell it.”

I write it down. He studies it: m-o-r-t-a-l. “Damned,” I say. He looks alarmed. “I’m not saying that,” I tell him. “I don’t believe it. Your church does.”

“I do not believe you.” What if a woman comes to him, her life in danger? “Who should I kill? Mother or child?” He needs guidance. “I will ask my wife’s priest,” he says. The priest will tell him. Who to let die, mother or child.