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different once he uttered the words and it had been confirmed, made real.
    “The baby.” He found that he was squeezing her shoulder and loosened his grip. “We lost it.”
    She closed her eyes but still didn’t change expression. Her hands stirred again like frightened thoughts beneath the thin white sheet. She moaned softly.
    He leaned over and kissed her cool forehead. He didn’t know what else to do. Didn’t know what he could do for himself. He felt like sobbing.
    “It isn’t fucking fair!” she said in a flat voice,
    “No,” he agreed, “it isn’t.”
    She opened her eyes again and gazed up at him. Her eyes were moist but she smiled thinly. “You gonna cry, Fred?”
    “No.”
    “Me either. This is rough, though.”
    He said nothing.
    “I’m bad luck for babies, I guess.”
    “Don’t say that. None of it was a matter of chance, any more than the rest of life is chance.”
    “But that’s what it all is, don’t you see, Fred? Nothing means anything . . . it’s all chance, no matter what we do.”
    It was a notion that scared him because it might be true and no one could afford to believe it. “You can’t think that. Think about yourself instead. Please!”
    She sniffled. “I guess I have to.”
    “Yes. No choice.”
    “It isn’t gonna break me,” she said.
    “I didn’t think it would.”
    A rhythmic squeaking out in the hall grew louder, stopped, then the door swung open and a plump blond nurse with kind brown eyes and a serious expression walked in on soft-soled shoes that squeaked with each step. She nodded to Carver and smiled at Beth. The serious expression disappeared entirely and her eyes lit up with her smile, as if she really felt the good cheer she projected. “We doing okay?”
    “More or less,” Beth said flatly.
    The nurse bent over her and examined her pupils, then took her temperature and blood pressure. After marking something on the clipboard she was carrying, she went to where the plastic IV packet was slung on the metal rod. She got a hypodermic needle from the drawer of a nearby beige metal cabinet, filled it with clear liquid from a vial she was carrying, then injected the liquid through a plastic connection in the IV tube. “To help you rest,” she said to Beth.
    “Should she sleep with a concussion?” Carver asked.
    “At this point it’s okay. She has other trauma.” Again the smile. “Don’t worry, we’re keeping a close watch on her.”
    But Carver was worried.
    “You don’t have to stay, Fred,” Beth told him.
    “I want to stay,” he said.
    “It isn’t necessary,” the nurse assured him.
    “I’m not going to let this fuck me up,” Beth said softly, and closed her eyes.
    Carver and the nurse watched her as her breathing deepened and evened out.
    “She’ll sleep for several hours,” the nurse said. “Maybe longer. You’re welcome to stay here if you want, but you don’t have to. Why don’t you leave a message at the nurses’ station where you can be reached if she wakes up and wants you or needs something?”
    Carver didn’t like the idea of leaving Beth, even though she obviously didn’t need him for anything at the moment. He hesitated, then nodded and left the room with the nurse.
    He dropped off both his office number and the beach cottage’s phone number at the nurses’ station down the hall from Beth’s room, then limped to the nearby elevators and pressed the down button.
    It took awhile for the elevator to arrive. Carver’s mind kept circling what had happened, playing on the screen of his memory the images of Beth flying backward out of the clinic in a shower of fragmented glass, falling back, her head bouncing off the concrete walk. People throwing aside placards and diving for cover. Figures running in the edges of his vision. Something there he couldn’t quite grasp. Maybe something important. Now Beth was in a hospital room, and the baby . . . their baby . . .
    He felt shaky as he entered the elevator, and tears