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We must have driven for at least half an hour or so and now we were in some small town in which all the stores were closed. Knowing Daphne, I had expected to be brought to an expensive-looking modern hospital, but the limousine pulled up behind a dark, dilapidated building. It didn't look like a clinic, or even a doctor's office.

"Are we at the right place?" I asked.

"It's where I was told to bring you," the driver said. He got out and opened the rear door. I stepped out slowly. The back door of the building squeaked open and a heavy woman with hair the color and texture of a kitchen scrubpad looked out.

"This way," she commanded. "Quickly."

As I drew closer, I saw she wore a nurse's uniform. She had roller-pin forearms and very wide hips that made it look like her upper body had been added as an afterthought. There was a mole on her chin with some hairs curling up around it. Her thick lips tightened with impatience.

"Hurry up," she snapped.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"Where do you think you are?" she replied, stepping back for me to enter. I did so cautiously. The rear entryway opened to a long, dimly lit corridor with walls of faded yellow. The floor looked scuffed and dirty.

"This is a . . . clinic?" I asked.

"It's the doctor's office," she said. "Go in the first door on the right. The doctor will be right with you."

She marched ahead of me and disappeared into another room on the left. I opened the door of the first room on the right and saw an examination table with stirrups. There was a sheet of tissue paper over the table. On the right was a metal table, and on that was a tray of instruments. There was a sink against the far wall with what looked like previously used

instruments soaking in a pan of water. The walls of the room were the same dull yellow as the corridor walls. There were no pictures, no plaques, not even a window. But there was another door, which opened, and a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows and thin coal-black hair flattened over the top of his head and cut short at the sides stepped in. He wore a light blue surgical gown.

He looked at me and nodded, but he didn't say hello. Instead he walked to the sink and began to scrub his hands.

"Just sit up on the table," he ordered with his back to me.

The heavy woman came in and began to organize the surgical tools. The doctor turned around to look at me. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"The table," he said again, nodding at it.

"I thought . . . I would be brought to a hospital," I said.

"Hospital?" He looked at the nurse, who shook her head without speaking. She didn't look up, nor did she look at me. "This is your first time, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, my voice cracking. My heart was pounding, and I felt the beads of sweat forming on my neck and brow.

"Well, it won't take long," he said. His nurse picked up an instrument that looked like Grandpere Jack's hand drill. I felt my stomach do a flip-flop.

"This is a mistake," I said. "I'm supposed to go to a clinic."

I backed away, shaking my head. Neither the doctor nor the nurse had even introduced themselves.

"This can't be right," I said.

"Now look here, young lady. I'm doing your mother a favor. I left my house, rushed my dinner to come down here. There's no time for foolishness."

"Foolishness is what got you here," the heavy woman said, scowling. "You play, you pay," she added. "Get on the table."

I shook my head.

"No. This isn't right. No," I said again. I backed myself to the door and found the knob. "No."

"I have no time for this," the doctor warned.

"I don't care. This isn't right." I turned around to pull open the door. In an instant I was down the dingy corridor and out the rear entrance. My driver was still sitting in the car behind the wheel, his cap over his eyes, his head back, sleeping. I rapped on the window and he jumped.

"Take me home!" I screamed.