He thought, "I shouldn't be worried about hunger, not now," But he couldn't help it. He was hungry. She had said to him, near tears, "I am so sorry to do this to you." He had wanted to say, "It's not your fault," but he hadn't.

Three hours and the magazines had been read. The boy opposite him said, "Did you come from Boston?"

"Yes," said he, tired of the silence. He had grown to like his silent friend. He had watched him closely.

"How did you come?"

"By route 95." He wanted to say, "Is it different with you, does it hurt you, because I am confused that it does not hurt me." But he didn't. Silence, and he felt empty all of a sudden.

"Mr. Paterson."

The boy opposite him arose. "Good luck," he said. It was out of place.

"It's so easy, he thought, "You do it, she is, you come to New York, and she isn't anymore. All in eight hours." It's so easy," he thought, "that if I was rich, perhaps I would do it more often." He felt empty. "Eight minutes," thought he "is a fair price, for extracting that clodded tissue."

She had said to him, "When a woman finds out she is pregnant, she should be happy, and I can't afford to be."

"It's so easy no right or wrong," thought he. "Perhaps when they call me, they'll give me a cigar saying. 'It would have been a boy.'" He suppressed the thought.

He would wait a few more minutes and she would be out. She would not be pregnant, there would be no cigars, but she would not be pregnant.

"No," he thought, "there will be no cigar, and there will be no child anymore. It would have been a good kid."

"Let's not," he thought "get melodramatic." And he waited for his emotion to return: because he knew it would.