“My ears are ringing,” he says, like it’s a national tragedy. I’m six months pregnant, my breasts and legs are sore, I can’t sleep because of the chains, I’m getting more and more scared about delivering a baby alone in this house, and he thinks I care that his ears are ringing? “So why don’t you go to a doctor?” I tell him. “Maybe you should take me to the doctor, too. Pregnant women are supposed to go to the doctor.” That came out a little sassy, but I’m so miserable that I don’t care. He ignores me, thank goodness, and says, “I’m going to the library.” An hour later he’s back with a thick
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