Above Jen’s bathroom ceiling, a hollering child repeatedly body-slammed himself to the tile, as he was scheduled to do every morning between six-fifteen and six-forty-five a.m., as Jen sat on the edge of the tub staring at the test, then at the small pile of broken tiles and unidentified black ooze collecting where the edge of the tub met the floor, then at the test again. It never seemed very scientific. It looked like something out of the play doctor’s kits her brothers had as kids—alongside the plastic stethoscope and cartoonishly oversized bandages, maybe they’d find a popsicle stick attached to a pen cap, Magic Markered in blue with a positive or negative sign.
Jen walked down the hall from the bathroom to the room for the hypothetical tiny future boarder, opening the door for the first time since the night of the LIFt party. Jim was curled in a sleeping bag atop the naked futon, his curved back to the door. Jen molded her body to the shape of his and pressed her face into the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” Jen said into Jim’s hair.
“I’m sorry, too,” Jim said into the sleeping bag.
“The answer is yes again,” Jen said.
“I think I knew that,” Jim said.
“I think the answer has been yes again for a while,” Jen said, “and I ignored it.”
“I think I knew that,” Jim said.
“I shouldn’t have,” Jen said. “I’ve drunk alcohol. I’ve ingested hundreds of milligrams of central-nervous-system stimulants. I’ve been on a dangerous boat. The boat was very bouncy. I got a sunburn. I was obliquely threatened with an antique machete.”
“It’s okay,” Jim said. “Early on, it’s okay. You can do pretty much anything. It’s a locked box.”
“I want to forget,” Jen said.
“Yolk sac,” Jim said. “Hermetically sealed.”
“I want to forget,” Jen repeated. “Until we know for sure.”
“Okay,” Jim said.
“Until we know everything.”
“Okay,” Jim said. “We’ll never know everything. But okay.”
They exchanged more apologies and affirmations, and rose to brush their teeth, and returned to the room.