Certainly something had happened to me during the night. Or after months of tension I had arrived at the edge of some precipice, and now I was falling, as in a dream slowly, even as I continued to hold the thermometer in my hand, been as I stood with the soles of my slippers on the floor, even as I felt myself solidly contained by the expectant looks of my children. It was the fault of the torture that my husband had inflicted. But enough, I had to tear the pain from memory, I had to sandpaper away the scratches that were damaging my brain.