I have a crisis laying in bed, covering my eyes with my forearm. I must stay in that same position for hours, sometimes silent sometimes groaning. I think about Zhang the whole time...if it's her here then at least neither of us have to start from scratch—our alliance is already implied. I soon find myself disturbed by my own way of thinking. To be carrying another man's child just to be brought here is a cruel twist of fate, and I should treat it as such.
Every time I try to picture what is at stake for the woman in this situation I am always met by the face of Zhang—distraught, tear-stained, forlorn. Her hands are always on her stomach, still flat but soon to grow. I get a vision that for some reason she is upset with me, saying I have brought this upon her, telling me we are no longer
