Lucy cupped her hands under the faucet and let the water cascade over them. Hypnotized by the steady stream, she watched it until time seemed to slow to a crawl.

  She pushed back her long dark hair, which had stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks, and splashed her face. She needed to extinguish the heat consuming her.

  She lifted her face toward the mirror, but before her small almond-shaped eyes could meet her own reflection, she grabbed a towel and covered it. She knew what she would see and hated it; better not to face herself for now.

  Her heart pounded, a tight knot constricting her chest as she struggled to breathe. It was understandable—she had just found out.

  “Are you alright, darling?” Rosa asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. Thank you.”

  No. She wasn’t alright, and she wouldn’t be for days to come.

  “I know how you must feel. It happened to me once. It’s awful.”

  And just when Lucy thought the tears wouldn’t come again, there they were, streaming down her face.

  “Oh, honey! I didn’t mean…” Rosa wrapped her plump arm around her, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze for encouragement, and tried to catch her gaze with a tender warmth—though it wasn’t quite enough.

  “It’s alright, Rosa. I’ll be fine.”

  “You mean it, darling?”

  Lucy nodded. No, and you know it, she thought but finished the sentence aloud, “…But I appreciate your understanding.”

  The two women stood before the wide restroom mirror, looking at each other. They both wore light blue scrubs, but next to Dr. Rosa Tyler—according to the nameplate hanging from her chest—Lucy looked small and frail.

  Lucy had neo-Asian features, dark hair, and pale skin. Rosa, on the other hand, had dark skin and a body that was four times Lucy’s size.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” Lucy said, and a smile spread across her friend’s round cheeks.

  “Oh, Hikaru!” Rosa said warmly.

  Lucy managed a smile in return, if only for a moment.

  “It’s been so long since anyone called me by my name,” she said, but the tears came back, bringing with them the stammer that always followed when she was upset or nervous. “Rosa… I-I’m forty-one… And this is the-the fifth one I’ve lost!”

  “Oh… I’m so sorry, darling. I didn’t know.”

  “Oh, Rosa. I’ll never be a mother.”

  “Don’t say that, honey.”

  Rosa hugged her again, and Lucy nestled into her friend’s comforting warmth, resting against a chest that had nourished life—an experience she feared she might never have.

  “One day, you’ll be an amazing mother, Lucy, you’ll see. And if not, there’s nothing wrong with that, either. There’s no shame in it, y’know?”

  “I know… It’s just that… this time I had so much hope. I-I don’t understand wha-what’s wrong with me. I’ve had all the-the tests done, and there’s nothing wrong. I should be-be able to conceive without trouble. I’m not sick, and-and I’m not malnourished like González said. I’m just thin by-by nature, that’s all!”

  “No, darling, don’t listen to that jerk. Just like you were born thin, González was born soulless.”

  Lucy let out a small laugh between sobs.

  “It’s funny you-you say that. I was just thinking that-that you’re the only one here with feelings, the-the only doctor truly devoted to caring for others. Oh, Rosa! I don’t want you to leave. If-if you transfer, this place will have nothing left but selfish monsters… None of them care about anything beyond the success of this ridiculous operation.”

  Rosa cupped Lucy’s chin with her thick fingers and smiled with the warmth of a true mother.

  “You’re wrong, darling,” she said. “You’ll still be here to remind this bunch of arrogant fools that there are things more valuable than a scalpel and a suture.”

  “Do you really think so, Rosa? Me, of all people…?” With tear-filled eyes, Lucy stopped herself and took a deep breath. “When I lost my first baby, I didn’t think much of it. I figured it was because of lack of sleep or maybe exposure to chemicals in the lab. But now… Look at Peterson—three months ago, she gave birth to a healthy, chubby baby. And me? Do you think what’s happening to me-me is a pu-punishment? Do you think it’s Him punishing me?”

  “I doubt He seeks to punish us any more than He already has,” Rosa said.

  Lucy tensed. “Then, do you think it’s me-punishing myself? Do you think I-I’m punishing myself for what we do? I mean… for-for the Major Surgery?”

  Rosa shook her head with a sorrowful expression, and her voice carried no sweetness, only painful regret.

  “I don’t know, Hikaru. But I do know that losing a pregnancy is a horrible thing, though there’s nothing supernatural about it. It just happens. There doesn’t have to be someone to blame.”

  Yes, Rosa, Lucy replied in her thoughts. I understand why you say that, but there’s always someone to blame. I hate myself too for my part in the Major Surgery, but unlike me, you had the courage to walk away from the operation and request a transfer.

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  Rosa tried to smile. Spoken or not, the doctor seemed to have heard Lucy’s response loud and clear.

  “Go and rest, dear. It’s late,” was all she said.

  Lucy nodded. “Yeah… I need to submit some reports and then… try to close my eyes for a bit. Oh, and Rosa… Thank you.”

  Rosa left the restroom, and Lucy remained there, arms hanging limply at her sides, staring at the doorway where her friend had just disappeared. It took her a while to summon the strength to leave.

  The restroom might not have been the most private place, but the absence of medical equipment or machines emitting that constant beep, beep, beep made it a refuge where she could vent her sorrows and avoid her colleagues, if only for a little while.

  But it was time to return to the battle that her work had become. Yes. What had once been interesting had turned into a struggle.

  It’s been that way since you got yourself into this damned project, she reminded herself. The voice in her mind was the harsh tone of her conscience—the one she had always thought she obeyed.

  She smoothed her light blue scrubs in front of the mirror one last time and stepped out into the corridor—a dull, gray corridor. She walked past the only window in that stretch, a wide but incredibly narrow one, no more than eight inches high. She leaned toward the glass and looked outside.

  Ashen white. The sky and the vast plain stretching into the horizon, everything looked ashen white, with a yellowish blotch high up among the clouds and some brown patches below. The landscape on the other side of those walls felt as bleak as it did inside.

  “Midnight sun…” she muttered to herself.

  No matter how romantic the term might sound, the truth was that an ever-present sun during the summer, regardless of what the clock said, and an endlessly long night during the winter—inevitable consequences of being inside the southern polar circle—quickly became oppressive.

  “As if you needed a reminder that there’s no escape,” she whispered.

  But what was there to be surprised about? It was easy to feel like a prisoner when she had to remain locked up for months in a laboratory stranded in the middle of nowhere.

  The gallery was empty. Being near midnight reduced Lucy’s chances of running into anyone. That was for the best—she didn’t want to be seen in such a vulnerable state.

  Wiping away her tears, Lucy hurried. She had to grab the test results from her office and bring them to him; that man had asked for them about thirty minutes ago, and patience was far from one of his virtues.

  However, she walked distractedly, letting her feet take over. Instead of turning right down the corridor, she found herself turning left—toward the nursery.

  Alright, Lucy thought. Her subconscious had played a trick on her, knowing how much she longed to see him, so she decided to let herself go with it.

  Rounding another corner, she reached a dead-end in the gallery. The last door at the end was the nursery entrance, flanked by a pair of guards.

  She considered her appearance. Her face was likely puffy from crying. She didn’t want them to see her like this. But then again, did it really matter? Their job was to guard the nursery, not to concern themselves with how disheveled she looked.

  Lucy glanced at the guards out of the corner of her eye. They were young, maybe ten years younger than her, dressed in black uniforms, boots, caps, and armed with holstered weapons. Their chins were high, their gazes fixed on some nonexistent horizon.

  Ignoring them, Lucy stopped in front of the nursery door, leaned into the small window, and peered inside. A hollow ache settled in her chest.

  The nursery walls were pristine white, though only from halfway up; the lower half was covered with colorful drawings, unrecognizable shapes, erratic scribbles—everything the boundless creativity of a child could conjure with a handful of crayons.

  The room had no furniture except for a rubber chair overturned in a corner and a short-legged plastic table now serving as a drawing board for the little artist responsible for the wall decorations.

  Sitting on the floor surrounded by colored pencils and sheets of paper, the boy was immersed in his art.

  Watching him so absorbed and calm, it was almost impossible for Lucy to believe this same little one had been plagued by constant fits of rage not long ago. She remembered the screaming, the crying, the hysteria, the way he’d pulled out chunks of his own hair.

  With trembling fingers, she gripped the doorknob, glanced at the guards—neither of them looked back—and quietly stepped inside.

  The boy didn’t bother lifting his head to see who had intruded on his solitude. For a few seconds, Lucy stood at the threshold, hesitant to disturb the fragile aura of peace in the room.

  The child wore white pajamas, now speckled with colorful stains. He held his canvas with his right hand and drew with his left.

  He’s left-handed, Lucy recalled, noticing with relief that the scratches the boy had inflicted on his own arms were beginning to heal.

  Convincing this little angel to stop hurting himself without resorting to sedatives had been an exhausting task. Taking away objects he could harm himself with wasn’t enough—they’d had to tie him up, even gag him to stop him from biting into his own flesh. How awful! How insane!

  And it’s your fault—yours and your heartless colleagues.

  Lucy sank deeper into her misery, and suddenly…

  “Hello,” her voice rang out in the room.

  It had slipped out of her lips, unbidden. A wave of heat flushed her face as she realized she was blushing.

  The boy became aware he was no longer alone. He raised his head, his amber eyes wide, accusing her as if she had just violated his sacred sanctuary.

  “Hello,” he replied, lowering his gaze, trying to peer beyond Lucy’s legs, searching for something—or someone—hidden behind her.

  That small gesture didn’t make Lucy feel awkward, as it often did. It made her feel miserable. But now that she was here, having interrupted him, she had to carry on.

  “Are you drawing?” she asked, as if it wasn’t obvious.

  The boy nodded and promptly returned his focus to his work.

  But what had started galloping in Lucy’s chest—that damned guilt—was a heavy, stubborn thing, not easy to shake off. It wouldn’t go away just like that. She had to keep trying.

  “What are you drawing?”

  For that, there was no response. Just a shrug and an awkwardly long silence.

  Lucy nodded, trying to smile, but all she managed was a sad grimace. She brushed a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, scratching at her scalp.

  He’s a four-year-old boy, for heaven’s sake! Why do you feel so unsettled around him? She hesitated, and the answer came on its own, Because you know what you’ve done to him, and because you know what he could do to you.

  She felt the urge to stroke his little head, to touch that beautiful brown hair that gleamed like a copper helmet. But no. If she touched him, she would fall apart. Instead, she clasped her hands tightly behind her back, locking her fingers together.

  Staring at the colorful scribbles that covered the lower strip of the walls, she pretended to study them as if they were the work of a famous artist.

  “They’re very pretty,” she said.

  Once again, silence.

  “Aren’t you sleepy?” Another question, this time hoping for a full sentence. “It’s very late, y’know? Little kids should be asleep by now.”

  And why would he care what other kids are doing? Lucy chastised herself. She let out one last, feeble smile, conceding defeat in her attempt to hold a conversation.

  But just as she stepped toward the door, the boy looked up at her. And before he even spoke, Lucy knew what he would say—the same question as always:

  “My brother… You’re going to bring my brother?”

  “Uh-uh. Not today,” she replied, winking at him. “But I’ll bring him tomorrow so you can say hello. How about that, huh?”

  The boy’s face lit up with a smile that sparkled with pure sweetness, dimples marking his cheeks.

  He’ll have a beautiful face… if he makes it to adulthood, Lucy thought, somberly.

  “I have to go now,” she said. “Dr. Templeton is waiting for me. I’ll let you get back to your drawings, alright? We’ll see each other soon, Broga.”

  And with that, she closed the door behind her and walked away from the nursery.