A painting at the 14^th Street Gallery drew Emma’s attention, not because the painting was especially good, but because of the title: Boy in the Boat. Almost certainly the figure standing in the boat was not a boy. Definitely a girl, or a young woman, to be more precise, possibly in her early twenties, maybe in her late teens, but in any case clearly pregnant. Boys did not get pregnant.

Emma noticed the red dot that indicated the painting was sold. She wondered what sort of person would buy this painting, especially given the price tag, almost four thousand dollars. Emma was pretty sure she wouldn’t spend four hundred dollars for it. Maybe forty, for the frame.

Maybe it was the girl’s mother who bought the painting. Or maybe the girl herself. Could a real person have been the model? The more Emma thought about it, the more she thought she needed to investigate. She portaled into the picture.

But when she got there the boat was empty. Not completely empty—there were at least six inches of water in the bottom. The boat was sinking. And where had the pregnant girl gone? It was then Emma had what she thought was an epiphany. The boy in the boat was the baby—the child in the mother’s womb. Okay, fine, but that didn’t answer the question: where were they now? Emma looked around. A fog was rolling in. She could not even make out the shore. And there were no oars in this boat. And someone was kicking her. From the inside. A baby! I’m going to be a mother! Emma exclaimed to herself. I’m going to have a baby. But right here on this boat? And who is the father? And do I care? A baby! A baby boy! Emma was so happy. And more and more water was seeping silently into the boat’s bottom.

Emma held her tummy, much as had the girl in the painting. Could she have become me? Emma thought. Is she now out in the real world, about to head out of the 14^th Street Gallery, about to meet up with Daniel at that café, share a croissant and a bagel and a pot of tea, and then head over to his place for some afternoon loving? And what am I going to do with a baby here in the middle of nowhere?

Emma sat on the bench. Her hand moved to her belly. Then lower. The boy in the boat, she mused. The clitoris.

The sun was coming out. The fog was burning off. The boat was spinning slowly, circling, circling, circling, and Emma had her middle finger hooked beneath her clit and her forefinger caressing the hood and she was so wet, so fucking wet, and she was coming, coming, coming.

When the boat hit bottom—the pond was barely four feet deep—Emma swam to shore. A young woman, the very woman from the boat, though no longer pregnant, offered her a towel. Her two boys, twins, played with toy sailboats at the water’s edge.