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The doctor will call out how thick the lining, how large the follicles, how many the follicles. Add these numbers to the biographer’s age (42) and her level of follicle-stimulating hormone (14.3) and the temperature outside (56) and the number of ants in the square foot of soil directly beneath them (87), and you get the odds. The chance of a child.
Kalbfleisch is a trained professional in whose expertise she is putting her trust. And her money—so much money that the numbers seem virtual, mythical, details from a story about money rather than money anyone actually has.
Don’t be stupid anymore, she wrote in her notebook, under Immediate action required.
“Your insurance doesn’t cover it.” “Why the eff not?” Lashes shakes his head. “I wish I could, like, slip it to you, but they’ve got cameras on every inch of this bitch.”
Two years ago the United States Congress ratified the Personhood Amendment, which gives the constitutional right to life, liberty, and property to a fertilized egg at the moment of conception.
In vitro fertilization, too, is federally banned, because the amendment outlaws the transfer of embryos from laboratory to uterus. (The embryos can’t give their consent to be moved.)
So many people want to adopt. Why should people be deprived of babies they will nourish, cherish, rain love down upon, just because other people don’t feel like being pregnant for a few months?
Why should a teenager be forced against her will to provide a baby for those unknown people?
Ash refused to come with. If they were caught, the police might think she was seeking one too, and she’d be charged with conspiracy to commit murder, and she’s already sixteen, and at sixteen you can be prosecuted as an adult.
Whatever frees Gin Percival to leave her hair twiggy and wear shapeless sack dresses and smell unwashed—the wife wants that.
