"HOW'S YOUR DAY BEEN, HON?"

Make no mistake, Serena Joy Waterford, aka. MRS. Frederick R. Waterford, was a believer. Even when withstanding the hysterical ravings of Alanis Wheeler, Serena never really gave up on Gilead's ideals, not really. Even when acting as if 'only a vessel' in bringing Noah into the world, even when caving in to June Osborne's pre-revolution understanding of basic, female, human autonomy - Serena's core Gilead-beliefs remained solid.

She knew "A Woman's Place". She knew that one should be careful in mistaking a woman's meekness for weakness. That meant that she was always up for a fight, make no mistake. You'd just seldom saw it coming.

Women, were holy vessels. They were not un-people, far far from it. Quite the opposite. Women were the temporal saviours of mankind, God being the real Saviour.

Still, there was a lot that she missed from the former days, when she and Fred were young, in love, and "ready for bear", as Fred used to say. (That had been an expression Fred had used in one of his more profitable ad-campaigns with his firm. In the former days.)

There had been the day when Serena had got home late, after fighting with a publisher. More importantly having had also to wait in the doctor's waiting room, only to be told the most devastating news she had ever received. Even in the middle of the fertility crisis, the issue underlying all of her Christian understanding of the world - it was now personal.

Upon entering and hanging up her coat, Fred had greeted her as he always had done - in those days, Fred had had that cute-youthful-lilt to his voice, a voice almost in song…. yes, Fred, he had once been quite the romantic.

His musical-lilt of a greeting? "How's your day been, Hon?"

She'd needed his voice that day, and she'd got it. She'd also needed that voice, which she did not get, when Fred had beaten her in front of Offred in his office, or when he had turned her over to Guardians for the amputation of her finger. Fred had not aged well.

But that day, "How's your day been, Hon?" With the sweet sound of Fred's voice, she allowed herself weakness, the kind that she thought women should not have. Please don't tell anyone. She then, herself, descended into tears.

She was weeping deeply as she crashed into the couch, Fred not far behind to hold her - as was then his wont. Those were the days when Fred would pull pans and a pot from the boil on the stove for her, knowing that dinner could wait - Serena had needed him.

The book, Serena told him. "A Woman's Place". No mainstream publisher wanted to touch it. So much for the commitment to 'diverse voices'. The local university publishing house, they had been more direct. 'We find your subject matter, Ms. Waterford,' that publisher had said, 'abhorrent in the extreme. If we did publish it, our building would be firebombed. I know, because it would be me throwing the matches.'

The best that the publisher would do was insist upon a wholesale rewrite, including burying the title, 'A Woman's Place'. The publisher's comment was, "Phyllis Schlafly, I was there when Washington University in St. Louis tried to give her an honourary degree. You're like her. You're an anti-intellectual with a political agenda."

That had meant that the publisher had no inkling of the mission Serena had embraced with heart and soul. 'The only way we'll be heard,' Serena had thought, 'is to take over.'

Fred then asked about the doctor's appointment, hoping that that would cheer her up. Nice one, Fred.

Serena stopped her weeping. She looked vacantly straight ahead. "He said that I was part of a club, which I didn't want to be a member of. The infertile club. Not exactly sterile, but the gunshot, it had not helped. That ruled out IVF. He said that spontaneous Fallopian regeneration was not out of the question, but absent an Act of God, we should consider other ways to make family."

At that announcement, Serena stared straight ahead, empty. Not even crying. That's how Serena's day had gone. Hon.

"Fred," she said, "we've got things to do, you're being wasted at the ad agency. How long before Sons of Jacob fire that starting gun?"

Fred, he was filled with excuses. What ifs. What abouts.

Serena was now angry. The first words she said to her husband in anger, ever, was, "I fear you men don't have the stomach to do what needs to be done." For the first and last time, Serena Joy Waterford, Mrs. Fred Waterford, she used the F-word. "Fire the fucking starting gun!"

THE DOWNSIDE OF DETENTION - A PERFECT WORLD

Tuello had made sure that she had two copies of the ultrasound, to take back with her to her cell. One for her, one for Fred - if she so chose to pass it along. Tuello had rightly guessed that there was now a gulf between the two, he'd helped engineer it. But Tuello had also been "so American" about the news of Serena's early-stage pregnancy. If this had been Gilead, it would have been Fred coming home with the ultrasounds to show her - if he so chose!

It made no difference to Serena Joy at this baffling news. Perhaps if this had been Gilead, the one person who'd have been relieved would have been Offred. But there in Toronto at the ITWC, Serena had lost track as to Offred's whereabouts, only that she was now 'on the run' in Gilead, at points unknown. How would a 'free' June Osborne react to Serena's news?

She hunched that that would be a weird bridge to cross.

Rita? Maybe Rita. 'I wonder', Serena thought, 'I know who to give the second ultrasound to. She's in Toronto. Rita will be so excited about a new baby. Who knows, in a perfect world, maybe me and the baby can move in with her? We can leave Fred out of it.'

SLIPPING THE SURLY BONDS

"I'm going to stop up here, okay?" said the girl with the long blue hair.

Serena pleaded, "please, please, don't kick me out, I need to protect the baby."

"Look," said the driver as she pulled over, put the car into park and left the engine running, "I nearly ran over you! What's going on? Whose baby is that?"

"He's mine, his name is Noah," Serena said. She was ferociously trying to speak and think at the same time, for some reason that skill in her set was eluding her right now. When a Wife in Gilead, she had always had time to think, plan and maneuver. That was harder to do when in Canada, herself on the run. She said, "I was at that Gilead Information Centre. People from Gilead, they're crazy about babies. I have to protect mine."

"Are you one of those handmaids?" the girl asked. "This is Canada, we don't have handmaids in Canada."

"Don't be so sure," was how Serena answered, immediately fearing that she was saying too much. She had to keep her eye on the prize - she could not get out of that car. She could not conflate her on-the-spot stories, or the girl really was going to kick her out. Or call the police.

That could not happen, neither of them.

"My aunt, she's a feminist, always at us - her nieces - about the old days. She's a volunteer with one of those refugee places. I could take you there!"

Serena stopped herself from yelling. No!" she said it as softly as she could manage. "I need to think, I need to think. Can we just stop here for a minute?"

"I'm due at work," the blue-haired driver said. "I should phone in….."

Which caused Serena to abruptly say, "No police, okay?"

"Okay, just settle down. No police. I told you, I'm calling work." Once again, Serena feared she was handling this all wrong.

The girl's call was straightforward. A workmate had promised to cover until she should get in. Serena was suddenly grateful for the 'laissez-faire' attitude that 'those people in Canada, the great unwashed' had towards their commitments. That was so, un-Gilead.

Turning to look back, the girl said, "you haven't stolen that baby have you?"

"No!" Serena protested, fearing an overreaction to the question would be counterproductive.

"So, what's your deal?" the girl asked.

Serena said out-loud, not really meaning to, "The U.S. Consulate. Mark Tuello." She hadn't realized that she was being her own worst enemy, failing to keep her thoughts to herself.

"You're an American?" the girl asked. "You people just lost some of your soldiers, Gilead pretty much kicked your asses."

Serena finally decided on a course of action - choosing from a pitifully short supply of options. She said to the girl, "can you pull up addresses on that phone of yours?"

The girl assured her she could, but that it would be better to search for an address from a phone number. Serena said, "All I have is a name. Can you find an address for a Rita Blue, 'Blue' like the colour?"

"Give me a minute," said the girl. "But if I can't get it, I'm taking you to my aunt. She'll know what to do."

Serena thought, 'she'll also probably know who I am!'

ABSENCES AND OPTIONS

Naomi had never really settled into that room at Commander Lawrence's, the one that Aunt Lydia herself had made up. Naomi had thought that if she became insane enough to sign on to Lawrence's 'proposal', that this house was going to employ some marthas. Good ones. Not the deviant apostates which Lawrence had tolerated last time.

The thing which kept Naomi going? The constant promise from Aunt Lydia that Angela would soon be returned to her. But to be honest, Naomi conceded to herself, it was obvious that Angela's return to her was predicated in her acceding to Lawrence!

It was all so insidious. So unfair. Warren's lusts had been his own. By what right did Lydia or Lawrence have to either bring or withdraw her daughter from her!?

As Naomi had settled into that room, she had finally digested Lydia's last remark, before the Aunt had gone downstairs for the night.

Aunt Lydia had said, "I have strong feelings about the room that you're in, unhappy memories of it. It's the handmaid's room. Treachery emanated from that room, sexual deviancy….."

'Okay, okay,' Naomi had thought. 'Now I'm NOT going to sleep, as if I needed another reason.'

Naomi had vowed not to cry. Not there at least.

She hadn't even cried about Warren, not really. She knew who Warren had been, she knew that half of his staff existed purely to ferry-in sweet young things for his deviancy. Warren had relied upon them, from since the before times. Naomi had thought that his rise in The Sons of Jacob would shock him out of his lusts. Once meeting the other Wives of Gilead and hearing the stories, she began to think that deviancy among the men was a requirement!

Warren, he had been one of the very few to have owned up to it. Not only did he confess fully to his Commander-brothers, he had voluntarily cooperated with his punishment. He had lost his left arm without complaint, but more significantly he had fired the key staff-enablers - those whose only 'staff function' had been what Naomi had been vulgarly told, was 'pussy patrol'.

Two of the key staffers as well as a Guardian, they had been sent to the Colonies - where administrators like them died at the same rate as the undesirables.

Naomi considered the absences in her life. She had not heard from her father, not since she had been spirited away from that fateful breakfast. She had not seen Angela, despite continual promises from Aunt Lydia. And despite his apostate-flaws, she was feeling Warren's absence, too.

Joseph Lawrence, he had been the executioner. Okay, he'd not pulled the trigger, that had been Commander Blaine. Knowing Blaine's Wife as she did, Rose, Naomi suspected that she was not going to be silent about her husband's actions.

Speaking of. Naomi considered the options from the vantage point of the handmaid's bed at Lawrence's, staring at the same ceiling that Ofjoseph had once stared at.

It wasn't fair. Gilead was better than this.