The doctor was led to the hallway and stood outside the door, clutching the large binder to her chest. “Margie!” she called, waited for a moment, then went on: “Hello, Margie. This is Dr. Julia Englander.” (“Answering machine,” thought Matti, standing beside her.) “I’d like to talk with you. Would you be willing to talk to me?”

The familiar silence prevailed, except that now Matti was sharing it with someone. Her perfume, reminiscent of citrus and bergamot, reached his nostrils—assailed them. They waited. “How many hours has she been in there, did you say?” the doctor whispered. “Seven, I think. A little over seven,” he replied, looking at the doctor’s exceptionally thin and birdlike profile, whose outline glowed in the shadowy hallway. “And she hasn’t come out to use the bathroom in all that time?” she whispered. “There’s an en suite in there. But anyway, she doesn’t go the bathroom very often,” he realized. “What do you mean?” she questioned him. “That’s how she is. She can go for hours, holding it in for hours and hours,” he admitted awkwardly. “That’s bad for her kidneys,” the doctor noted gravely, and he nodded in agreement, perplexed by the strange unfolding of events that had led to him standing outside a locked door in an ugly hallway, debating the state of Margie’s kidneys with a stranger.

The doctor interrupted his musings. “Could it be because of the dress?” she asked. “What dress?” Matti wondered, a little dazed. “The bridal gown. Lots of brides break down and get cold feet at the last minute because of the dress. Like if there’s family pressure to rent a six thousand shekel dress and they wanted the thirteen thousand one, or the fifteen thousand one, and some girlfriend makes a comment. That sort of thing.” He stared at her (lingering on the brown mole next to her nose). “Thirteen thousand?” he said. “Margie is not at all the type you’re thinking. Not at all the fifteen thousand type. A friend of hers who’s studying design sewed the dress for her as a gift. I don’t even have any idea how much it cost, if it cost anything at all.” He pulled out his phone and ran his finger across the screen. “Here she is in the dress. She tried it on last night.”

The doctor removed her glasses and looked. The bride’s straight, dark hair fell in two heavy, desperate cascades on either side of her face, plunging down to her gaunt shoulders, which were covered by the dress’s translucent white fabric. A single, muted pearl glimmered at the round neckline. Her large, slightly slanted eyes were too wide open, almost unnaturally so, and blended in the picture with the very dark, very bushy eyebrows, so much so that at times it looked as though the place where her eyes should have been was cut out, with only two dark, round holes testifying to their location. She had her hand held up to her cheek and the dress’s wide sleeve drooped down a little, exposing her forearm, revealing five colorful beaded bracelets that reflected dancing light on the wall, and whose cheerful jangling one could almost hear.

“She’s pretty,” said the doctor, handing him back the phone. “Margie, can you hear me? This is Dr. Julia Englander. You can just answer yes or no, that’s fine.” They waited quietly again. (“It’s pointless, we’re pointlessly waiting,” Matti thought gloomily, and the thought slid into a corner of his mind, then bounced back to another corner, like a bowling ball in an empty, windowless room.)

From behind the door there came a feeble, strange bleating sound. They looked at each other and tilted their heads. Something bleated again, almost singing, in a mechanical voice that sounded like a baby’s whimper, or an imitation of a whimper: “Ye . . . es,” and after a moment or two, “No . . . oo.”

“Is that Margie’s voice?” the doctor asked dubiously. Matti shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s never made a sound like that.” There was silence for a moment (Mattie secretly placed his thumb on the pulse throbbing in his wrist), then the voice bleated again: “Ye . . . es,” and then, “No . . . oo.” It sounded wobbly and withering, like a radio with its battery running out. (That’s it—the realization struck him—a battery.) “It’s a doll,” Matti said, “it’s not Margie at all, it’s a doll. You know, one of those dolls that talk when you turn them over.” “Does she have a doll?” the doctor asked curiously. “No, of course not!” he retorted, and his panic turned over and mounted into terrible fury, almost hatred. “Margie!” he pounded on the door and kicked it. “You’ve had it if you don’t open up right now, this minute, and quit all these games, do you hear me? You’ve had it!”

The doctor looked at him without saying a word, her gaze gleaming from behind her glasses, and went back to the living room.