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“Very.”

“Good.”

Later I open the laptop at the kitchen table and go into the account.

Checking. Savings. HOUSE.

The balance is not what it was before the clinic let me go. It is going up again, slowly, out of money I have earned in a painted-shut room at the end of a corridor.

Colt comes in with a glass in his hand and stops when he sees the screen. He has seen it before. He knows the word at the top of it.

“You want me to go?”

“No.”

He stays where he is.

“It is still there,” I say.

“I know.”

“It is going to keep being there.”

“Okay.”

“You are not going to ask me what it is for.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He thinks about it first.

“Because you told me.”

He leaves me to it.

I close the laptop without changing the name on the account.

In the front room Tova is explaining something to my husband with both hands, and he is pretending not to follow it so that she will do the whole thing again.

I have somewhere to go.

I go there.