The doctor came around the desk. He was a nondescript little man, with the kind of face that makes it hard to guess age. Late forties, early fifties maybe. Mousy brown hair, clean-shaven, wire-rimmed glasses, hazel eyes. He noticed where I was looking. “Ah, yes. Never too early to think about marketing, you know.”

“Marketing…yes,” I said.

“And hello! Thanks for stopping in. You would be the host for our Miss Cindy Lou Staples!” He leaned forward, putting his head close to my stomach, and raised his voice. “HELLO in there, Cindy! Is everything all right with you?” To my embarrassment, I suddenly passed gas—loud and long. He chuckled at my expression. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s one long for ‘yes,’ two short for ‘no.’”

“Uh…” I flailed desperately for some way to redirect the conversation back toward sanity. “How’d you know about her?”

“We keep track of who all our subjects leave with. CCTV cameras in the ceiling, and I review the tapes personally. Won’t you have a seat?”

I sat. What else could I do?