It's not, I reply, discarding my empathy like the nine of clubs when I'm certain she's holding nines. But it could be worse, couldn't it? If the moon were less predictable, then you'd worry every time, not knowing. You'd be like the first railroad bridge across the Mississippi and here's the Effie Afton bearing down, its pilot house like a dark, undiagnosed tumor. I mean, we're talking years of medical mimicry here, blame and argument, hearings in Congress. Next thing you know, there are more barges than you can shake a stick at and your body's no longer yours. Your breasts are in someone else's hands.

Ouch, says September, redundantly.

Ouch is right, I say. Gin.