I walked three blocks to a little corner bench facing Central Park, took my phone out of my pocket, and opened my message thread with Spencer.

I typed a single sentence, noting the exact date of my third medical transfer six years ago, that the lost embryo had carried his failed genetic profile, and that the fifty million dollars was simply a debt owed for his lost child.

I hit send, turned off the phone, and dropped it into my handbag.

The noise of the street faded into a steady, quiet hum as yellow cabs lined up along the curb.

An older couple walked by with paper bags from a neighborhood market, talking softly in Italian as they crossed the avenue toward the park entrance.