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inch of me screamed in agony. The wool cape, carefully draped over my naked body, was like lead, heavy with the early morning rain. And my blood.
    I struggled to sit up. The cat meowed at me in concern. My arms, too weak to support me, collapsed and I fell back into the mud. The morning drizzle continued, as if to cleanse me from the previous night’s sins.
    The cat cried, as did I, as helpless as a kitten. When I could cry no more, I slept.
    The ground shook from the distant rumble of cattle. The sharp bark of the dogs erupted above the mournful lowing of the cows. I opened my eyes and in the distance saw a tall figure. I croaked out a greeting.
    “Move on, you whore,” Seamus shouted to an errant heifer. I called out again. He turned toward me, his green eyes, eyes common to the Mountain families, shone through the gloom like a beacon.
    He strode through the mud. I groaned in agony, and relief. Seamus gathered me in his strong arms, unsurprised to see me in my usual spot, unfazed by my injuries and my nakedness.
    “You poor woman,” he murmured as he carried me through my garden gate. “You poor, poor woman.”
    Chapter 3
    Caroline
    “Of course, I understand,” I said into the phone, struggling not to cry. “I’ll stop the shots immediately.”
    “Mrs. Connelly, I am sorry.” For once, a bit of warmth broke through Dr. Feinberg’s cool reserve. “I thought with the new drug regime you’d have a better result this time.”
    “Me too. When should I start another cycle? Next month?”
    He was silent for a moment. I stared vacantly out the apartment’s window and barely noticed the hum of the Park Avenue traffic below. “We generally don’t recommend more than four cycles. With your poor response, I can’t recommend you continue. I think it’s time to consider other options.”
    Numb, I asked without inflection, “Other options?”
    “Donor egg, donor embryo, adoption.”
    “No, no,” I said, suddenly frantic. “I want my own baby. I need to have my own baby.”
    “Many of my patients use third party options to build their families.”
    I could see a woman struggle to fold her stroller into a waiting cab on the street below.
    “There must be something else we can try. More drugs. There have to be different drugs. A second opinion?”
    “Mrs. Connelly,” Dr. Feinberg said, the cool professional remove creeping back into his voice, “we’re the foremost fertility clinic in the country. I can certainly provide you with the names of some other fine centers here in New York, however, I’m afraid their opinion will be the same as mine. You were on the highest dosage permissible by the FDA. We did everything we could. Unfortunately, IVF can’t help everyone.”
    “I’m only thirty-one!”
    “I know, and I’m sorry. Call the office and make an appointment if you want to explore donor eggs.”
    Pointless. Arguing with him was pointless. “All right, Dr. Feinberg,” I choked out.
    “Thank you.”
    The midday sun from the window blinded me, and I closed the heavy custom made curtains. I sank into the couch, unable to think what to do now that my precious embryos had disintegrated in my useless womb.
    Bobby wasn’t due back from Brazil until this evening. I had no job to go to, since we’d decided six months ago I should quit. We blamed my infertility on stress, although to be honest, my job as an assistant marketing director at the small advertising firm was hardly stressful. I’d gladly given it up and immersed myself in all things related to Project Baby.
    I’d taken up yoga. I’d drunk vile shots of wheatgrass at least twice a day. We only ate organic meats. Bobby wore boxers. I’d cut back on dairy, but later read an article saying dairy increased IVF success, so I drank two glasses of organic milk a day. I meditated. I’d gone back to church and lit candles after Mass. I’d visited the store-front psychics that lined Lexington Avenue. I’d joined an online chat-room for other Manhattan