My husband and his prodigy colleague wrote a protocol for my baby in green pen. Keep the sample cool until Friday. Baseline first, then we can calibrate. I was in my second trimester, and the refrigerator held containers labeled with my cycle days. Then I found the manila folder in Daniel’s study: my lab results, my ovulation dates, and beside each number, the projected IQ of a child conceived that day. Notes on the optimal delivery window. A schedule of “prenatal vitamins” I was never meant to question. Daniel is a Hartwell professor. Katherine is the prodigy he trusts. They wanted my baby on their timeline. They assumed the wife would comply. I spent seven years as a lab technician. I know a protocol when I see one written on my own body. I didn’t cry. I didn’t confront them. I canceled my appointment, transferred my records, and walked out.