I pull out the sonogram. It’s been folded into quarters and refolded and unfolded so many times the creases are starting to fuzz. I’ve kept it tucked in the lining of my clutch behind a tampon and a tube of Chanel, the two things in my bag that Raymond won’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
I press it into Matvei’s hand.
And just like that, I watch the operator mask crack down the middle.
It’s such a small thing. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A tiny softening at the outer edge of his eye. His thumb smooths over the paper like it might tear if he isn’t careful, like it’s not a Xerox of a Xerox of something that was barely discernible in the first place.
His other hand drifts up, very slowly, and presses against his ribs. Right where Mr. Refrigerator stuck him.
I don’t think he knows
