He was a father. That's what a father does. Eases the burdens of those he loves. Saves the ones he loves from painful last images that might endure for a lifetime. (George Saunders)

Remember, people will judge you by your actions, not your intentions. You may have a heart of gold, but so does a hard-boiled egg. (Maya Angelou)

Sometimes June dreamt about just his face. His sympathetic eyes catching hers while Serena was yelling at her, maybe, or his gaze on her in the rear-view mirror while he drove her somewhere. She dreamt about his lips, usually so serious; she relished the moments when she said something funny enough to make his lips quirk up into even a brief smile.

Sometimes the dream was a simple conversation, as pleasantly banal as life got in Gilead: discussing the dinner menu with Nick and Rita in the kitchen, or flirting with each other over breakfast oatmeal. Some dreams were conversations they'd actually had; others were things that were presently happening to her and that she wanted to share with him, usually something about Nichole. But although the events were taking place in Canada, her dreams were situated in Gilead. She couldn't picture Nick in Toronto.

Sometimes she dreamt about one specific body part of his. His hands, mostly, with those beautiful long fingers that touched her so gently. Occasionally the dream dealt with his neck; she liked the view from the back between his trimmed hair and the collar of his shirt. Even better was the graceful slope from his neck to his bare shoulders, then down his arms. She loved his arms, so good at protecting or embracing her.

And sometimes, of course, her dreams about Nick mushroomed from these quick images into a full-blown scene, usually in bed…like that delicious dream she'd had a few nights ago, making love during a rainstorm. She woke up from those kind of dreams with gnawing pains deep in her belly and heart. She missed him so intensely in such moments that she'd consider how to get back to Gilead. Goddamned ridiculous, she knew, impossible. Yet if she could just find a cabin in the woods somewhere near the border where he could visit her, she might abandon her current life and go.

June never dreamt of Canada. Nor of Luke. Her mind wasn't in Toronto yet, even if her body was located there.

"I think you're confusing Nichole," Luke abruptly told June one evening.

He'd been brooding about something for a while now; she wasn't sure what the issue was. Maybe this. "How so?" she said neutrally.

"A child should know who her parents are."

"Right."

"When Nichole fell on the sidewalk last month and scabbed her knees, she called out for me. Not for you, not Moira. She wanted her daddy." He paused for emphasis. "I'm her daddy. First, last, and only."

"Uh-huh." Now she knew where he was going with this.

"I think you should just call Nick 'Nick' around her."

"I see." June was not really in the mood to talk about this with her insecure husband…but then again, she never was. She couldn't avoid this forever, she decided with a sigh. They'd been together for months, though they'd done nothing but dance around the topic. "Do you really want have this discussion, Luke?"

"Yeah, I do. Because she's reaching an age that she can understand stuff like this, and she's gonna have questions."

"Nichole has questions, or you do? Cuz I don't think she's confused at all."

"I've taken care of her since she was three months old, June," he began. She cut him off.

"Yes, and I've thanked you over and over for that. Nichole loves you best, we all know she's a daddy's girl. But when I showed up, she wasn't 'confused' about whether Moira or I was her real mommy."

"Well, of course not, 'cause I'd told her lots of stories about you. She'd seen your pictures. And you're, like, her actual mother."

June raised her eyebrows at him rather than stating the obvious: Nick was her actual father. And she was telling her daughter lots of stories about him, for exactly the same reason. So that she would know him.

"It's not the same," Luke argued. "You carried Nichole for nine months, you nursed and took care of your baby, now you're here for her. Nick hasn't done shit for her. He only lived with her for a few months, and Rita said he wasn't even allowed to hold the baby. Fred Waterford probably acted more of a father than he did."

"Oh no, back the fuck up, Luke." June's anger rose like bile in her stomach whenever Waterford's name was mentioned, especially in such a context. Where the actual fuck did that comment come from? Why couldn't Luke understand the most basic of her triggers? "But yeah, kidnappers get to spend lots of time with the children they kidnap. The real parents don't. That's kinda how kidnapping works."

Seeing the sudden fury on her face, he at least had the decency to backtrack. "I'm sorry for mentioning Waterford. I didn't mean that."

Ignoring the apology, she took a deep breath and spoke rapidly, a machine gun burst of words. "This is why I don't like discussing this issue with you, Luke. You have no fucking clue what you're talking about, yet you try man-splaining Gilead to me. I didn't get to bond with my baby any more than Nick did, and I never got to nurse her. I didn't even live at the Waterfords' after she was born. Serena was so fucking scared the baby might prefer me to her, she kicked me out of the house. But you don't know any of that, and you don't want to."

"No, I…."

She interrupted and kept going. "You know what Nick did for his daughter? He got her the fuck out of Gilead. The same day he learned I was pregnant, he got in touch with Mayday and started organizing an escape. He knew if I escaped, he'd never set eyes on his child, but he thought her safety was more important than his access to her. That's called being a goddamned selfless parent. And just a couple of weeks later, Nick came through, and Mayday got me to a safe house, where I stayed for three months, and Nick came to visit me twice a week, all night." June saw her husband's expression change into naked jealousy; she didn't care. "When that escape plan didn't work, he tried again, and a third time, til Nichole was free. I didn't tell you any of that before, since I didn't think your fragile male ego could take it. But how dare you, how dare you say that just because Nick got his daughter to Canada while he's still stuck in Gilead, he doesn't know her and is therefore not a good parent."

"Okay, June, okay. He's a fantastic parent compared to me." His muttering quickly morphed into shouting. "You don't have to keep throwing my failure in my face—I know I didn't get Hannah out! I fucking know that. You know what else, though? I didn't have to take the baby that you and your hero loverboy threw across the border at me. But I did, I stepped up and raised your little love child. And that makes me more of a father to Nichole than he is."

"By that logic, Kyle MacKenzie is Hannah's dad! He's been there for her through most of her life. She barely remembers you."

Luke's eyes narrowed into daggers. "That is not the same thing. At all."

"It's exactly the…"

"Not. Even. Comparable. I was Hannah's daddy for six and a half years, and she loved me, and I loved her. Nick doesn't know the first thing about his child. He doesn't even want to come here and be a father!"

June was aware they were shouting at each other, in earshot of Moira. Hopefully Nichole was sleeping through this; once she was down for the night, she was usually out cold. Still, for her daughter's sake, June tried to lower her voice. She took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. "Look, if Nick came to Canada, they'd hunt him down and kill him. He knows too much about their military. And if they found him, they'd find Nichole and me. He's keeping us safe by staying away. He wants to know her, of course he does, but his first priority is to keep Nichole safe."

Luke lowered his voice as well. "Would you leave me if he were here? Go live with him?" The fight was suddenly gone out of him. If Nick wasn't truly Nichole's daddy, then he wasn't Hannah's either—he couldn't have it both ways. June's logic tracked. Either bloodline mattered, or it didn't.

"Nick isn't leaving Gilead," she repeated, without answering his question. She tried a gentler tack. "Luke, do you remember just before the President's Day Massacre, when we decided to go off birth control?"

"Yeah, I remember that."

"Contraception was outlawed soon after that. So I could have been pregnant when we got separated. I could've had a baby while training at the Red Center. He'd be six now." She tilted her head. "Would you love that baby, even if you'd never seen him? If he were living with a Commander somewhere in Gilead, would you want him here with us?"

"Of course I would."

"Would you feel like that child's 'father'?"

He looked away from her. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Of course."

"Then you do know how Nick feels about his daughter."

"No," he insisted, though with less force than before. He tried to articulate a reason. "You and I, we're married. We would've conceived that child together because we decided to create a…symbol of our marriage. He would've been conceived in love, and I would've loved him from the moment we created him."

She sat back. "Well, that's what you're really upset about, isn't it? Not what Nichole calls you or Nick. It's the 'conceived in love' part that's driving you crazy."

"No, I'm just worried about Nichole," he lied.

"Bullshit. You're worried I'm still in love with Nick."

He was silent for a moment, reflecting on that statement. "Are you? Were you ever truly in love with him?"

"I told you I was. On that cassette."

"Well…maybe you thought you were in those days, under very trying circumstances, with nothing else to hold on to. Trauma can make people feel bonded quicker than normal. And you've always been a romantic."

She closed her eyes for a long moment, then stared right into his. She took his hands in hers. "I need you to hear this, Luke. You're my husband, and you're here now, like I'm here now, so I'm gonna keep trying to make a life with you in Toronto. I owe you that, and you can be confident in my loyalty to you."

"I am."

"Good. You and I will go on raising Nichole together, and I promise I will try to reconnect with you. I'll really…try. But my feelings for him can't just switch off because he's out of reach, you know? For three years now I have been, and continue to be, in love with Nick. He and I found each other while I was still mourning you, but we slowly let our guards down enough to trust each other and become friends. I fell in love with him, and he in me.

"I didn't want to get pregnant, because I knew our baby would be ripped away from us at birth, but once it happened, he was so…" Sweet, she wanted to say. Affectionate. Hopeful, in that subdued Nick way—it was the first time he felt a glimmer of hope about the future. She saw his trusting face so clearly in her memory, kneeling at her side in the Waterford kitchen, the smell of freshly-baked bread and cinnamon in the air, his hand entwining with hers across her belly.

This is terrible.

No, it isn't.

She regrouped and continued. "Nichole was a very wanted child, okay? We went through that pregnancy together, just like you and I went through Hannah's. With the same excitement as she grew, him talking to my tummy the way you used to, the…"

"Stop. Just stop comparing us. Please. This is just…killing me, June." He took off his glasses, ran a hand over his eyes. "I don't want to know this stuff, okay? I don't want to know how sweet he was with you, don't want to know if you loved each other, and I sure as hell wish you'd stop having dreams about fucking him. You talk in your sleep, by the way."

"I'm sorry." What else could she say to that?

"Well, it's not like you're doing it on purpose. But it's humiliating. Emasculating."

She looked away. "I miss him. I dream about Nick because I have no one to talk to about him. Moira thinks he's just another evil Commander that I have a trauma bond with, and that I should forget he ever existed. Emily and Rita don't want to talk about anything that happened in Gilead. You certainly don't want to hear it."

"Uh, no, not that part, anyway." What man would want to hear how much his wife misses her lover? Luke had felt useless since he got to Toronto without his wife and daughter. Impotent, incompetent, cowardly. The Nick Question just twisted the knife in more. If June wanted to commit to him, show him she could stay faithful, matters would improve. It was just that…"You know what your problem is?"

"No, Luke," she said in sudden exasperation, "tell me what my problem is."

"You never broke up with him."

"What?"

"You never had a big fight, never called it quits. That's why you can't move on."

It hadn't occurred to June that she was supposed to want to move on.

"Maybe we could do a little role-playing, you know, kinda like we used to. Have a fight, or a talk, or even have break-up sex. I can play the role of Nick. Or you could just write him a Dear John letter. But whatever, you need closure, if you're sure he's never coming to Canada. You've got no future with him."

June considered for a long minute. Luke could hear the kitchen wall clock jumping, a far-off dog howling.

"No," she finally said.

"No to the letter, or no to…?"

"Nick lives in a dictatorship with nearly nothing positive in his life and the threat of death hanging over him. He does not need to hear that I've given up all hope of ever being with him. It would crush him."

"He's still hoping that you're, what, gonna go back to Gilead?"

"No, but maybe one day Gilead will fall. Maybe it'll all be over some day, and we'll all get to choose our own lives."

"Yeah, but for now, you're here with me and he's not."

"You don't think he knows that?" Before Luke could respond, she clarified, "We never say goodbye to each other. It's our policy. We never say the word: it's too final. I can't. I can't tell him that."

"Okay," Luke murmured. "Fine. I'm gonna start sleeping in the guest room. I love you very much, but I can't handle this. When you figure out what you want, June, you let me know." He stood up, hoping that she'd object and come running after him.

She let him go.

Sarah's alto voice came booming at him as soon as he closed the front door. "Blessed evening, Commander!"

Nick wandered into the kitchen. It smelled delicious; roast beef in the oven, pots boiling cheerfully on the stove. The contraband boombox on the counter played The Supremes. Baby Love. The dining room table was set formally for two, a vase full of new flowers as a centerpiece. "Hi there. Why are you so happy?" he asked her warily. What was there in Gilead for a Martha to be happy about?

Sarah turned away from the dinner on the stove, giving him a genuine smile. "I've got a present for you." She walked over to the refrigerator to remove a glass bottle. She displayed it with a flourish. "Look what I got: ice-cold Coca Cola. Here, have a Coke and a smile, as they used to say."

Nick's eyebrows went up. He hadn't drunk pop in six years. His mouth watered as he inspected the bottle. Made in Mexico, where the company had relocated. He was secretly glad to know that some Americana still survived. "Did you bribe someone to get this?"

"Nah, I had to murder a guy," she said casually. "You don't want to know." As he shot her a shocked look, she winked. "Miss Rose found it. Along with a teeny tiny bottle of rum. Want a Cuba Libre, Señor Blaine?"

"What's actually going on?" he whispered at her. Before the Revolution, Sarah had spent twenty-four years as an elementary school teacher in a bad part of Chicago. Therefore she didn't suffer fools, she didn't put up with bullshit, and she hated all things Gilead. Nick liked her immensely.

"It's good news," she assured him, serious now. "Rose is upstairs. She wants to tell you herself. You're gonna need a stiff drink first, though."

Drink in hand, Nick walked up the carpeted staircase. One step creaked badly; he'd replace it this Sunday, along with the loose doorknob on the hall closet. Though a Commander now, he still thought like a driver, seeking household issues to fix. Housework was more pleasant now that Serena Joy wasn't bossing him around.

Rose was in her bedroom armchair, feet up, wearing a pair of his thick winter socks, reading one of the Harry Potter novels. (He'd given her the boxed set for her birthday. Like many Millennials, she'd been a Potterhead as a child.) Nick and Rose had come to an understanding early in their marriage: Gilead rules applied in public, American rules in their home. She had always been politically and socially conservative, but the government prohibition on things like reading and pop music was nonsense, as far as she was concerned.

Presently, though, Rose looked up from her book and beamed at him. "Blessed evening, Nick. How was work?"

"Fine," he muttered. "Lawrence is still obsessing about his New Bethlehem plan. He wants to make himself a little Hong Kong on the Atlantic. How was your day?" He lifted his drink meaningfully, took a swig. "I see you've been doing some unofficial shopping."

She nodded, grinned widely. "It worked," she said simply.

"What worked?"

"Our plan. Our plan to avoid getting a handmaid assigned to us."

Shortly after their wedding, Aunt Lydia had appeared at their new house. She spread manila folders all over the dining room table. These are our finest girls, she'd told Nick and Rose, implying that the couple should choose one.

Handmaids.

Nick could not have a handmaid. Would not.

He'd told Lydia that he and Rose wanted to try for a baby of their own first: they didn't need a handmaid's service. And to keep that story believable, they'd dutifully plotted out her ovulation cycle and did try—Gilead-style, without foreplay or kissing or even much touching—last month, on days eleven and thirteen, as advised. The only two times they'd had sex. If you could call it sex. More like copulation, Nick thought. He'd felt more intimacy with Beth, back in Jezebel's kitchen, pressed against the wall of the pantry. At least Beth and he had some passion and enthusiasm. And June…he couldn't even think of June right now.

"I'm five days late," Rose was telling him breathlessly, "so I went to the doctor, and he did a blood test. I'm pregnant. It worked."

"What," Nick gasped.

"This is wonderful."

This is terrible, June had told him.

He repeated his response now. "No, it isn't."

"It isn't?" Rose said, suddenly subdued.

Nick hid his emotions and thought fast. "The doctor, the one back in America, said you might not be able to carry a baby to term and deliver." Rose had congenital hip dysplasia, which hadn't been treated properly when she was a baby because her freaky religious nutcase parents had insisted they could just pray it away. Her left hip frequently dislocated, and gave her near-constant arthritic pain. She should have a hip replacement, except Gilead didn't believe in that.

"I know, but this doctor, the one today, said the last doctor must've been an 'incompetent woman.' He thinks I'll be fine. If I carry low and my hip starts giving me problems, I'll just go on bed rest for the final few months. I'll be fine." She smiled at him. "It's sweet that you're already worried about me. About us," she amended, running a hand over her flat belly.

"Yeah," Nick lied as he sat down on the edge of her bed. "Yeah, I am worried about you." He downed the rest of the rum and Coke. Fuck. Fucking bullshit country that makes me go through colossal amounts of motherfucking bullshit.

June, he thought desperately. June. I'm so sorry.