Lena leaned against the banister of the stairs leading to her apartment, her breathing heavy and her head spinning as if she were coming out of a party she had gone to badly. She got home an hour and a half before the end of the workday, because every little accident with the digital camera made her break out in a cold sweat, and when she raised her hands to her head she felt the sharp pain in the back of her neck. On the bus ride she remembered that she hadn't had a thermometer since she had moved, and when she got off at the nearest stop she headed straight for the tiny pharmacy on the corner of the street.

The fantastic ring of the doorbell shattered in her ears like glass, and the smell of alcohol and lavender spray filled the store. Lena asked for the good old thermometer – the one with the glass ball held in the hand like a little hammer – not the buzzing digital one. The cashier placed a green cardboard box in front of her with a blue price tag on it. Paying another thirty-five shekels for her nostalgic rights felt silly, but she didn’t want to argue.

When she entered the apartment, she dropped her bag on the couch like a sack of sweet potatoes, took off her flip-flops, and collapsed onto the bed. She felt the light rain starting to drip on the window, and the dull sound of drops on metal made her feel even more isolated. She reached for her stomach, feeling the muscles tighten, as if her body was contracting inward. Without thinking twice, she called her mother—the only thing stronger than her, even at thirty-five.

Within twenty minutes the door opened and Rivi came in with a basket of sprouts and the smell of chicken soup wafting through the house. "What's wrong, honey? You look like a dirty cup." She set the basket on the counter and left the kitchen with an attempted smile. For a moment Lena felt like a little girl, not a woman running an entire department in an advertising agency.

"Everything hurts," Lena whispered, "and I'm shivering from the cold."

Rebi didn't ask any unnecessary questions, just wiped her hands on the blue towel and said: "You don't have a thermometer, do you? Sit here." She pointed to the sofa, and went to take the green box out of her bag.

Lena exhaled like a child who knows the shot is coming, but she couldn't move herself. Reeve came back with the glass device, shaking it like a sorceress with a bottle of spells. "We have accurate thermometers," she says, "but I want you to stay still. Keep your ass up, I'm putting it under the blanket so it won't hurt you."

Lena felt her cheek blush. She couldn't argue, because she had been there twice as a child – once with the flu and once when she simply wanted a fever so she could stay home from lunch. She stayed on her stomach, lifting her pelvis slightly, feeling the thin housedress wrap around her hips. Rebi pulled Lena's shorts down to her knees, revealing the white skin peeking out from under the cotton panties.

The cold bulb of the thermometer touched her skin, and she felt the glass sink in, remaining there like a small statuette. Rebi spoke to her pleasantly, stroking her lower back: "Just a minute, just be quiet. I can already see that your breathing is irregular."

The minute lasted like an eternity, and Lena felt her heart pounding in her chest, the veins in her neck bulging like carrots. She felt her middle dangling, the thin wetness beginning to build there – not just from the heat but also from her mother’s steady gaze, from the strong hands holding her buttocks, from her knowledge that she had nowhere to run.

When the thermometer came out with a slight "pop ," Reeve looked at the numbers: "Thirty-seven and a half. You have a slight fever there, but I'll make you some tea with lemon and put a band-aid on your forehead. You stay here, and if you need anything, call me. I'm not going anywhere."

Lena lowered her head onto the pillow, felt her mother's hands arranging the blanket around her, and suddenly she didn't know if she was sick or just wanted someone to take care of her like this – without questions, without requests, just with the look of a mother who knew exactly how to take care of her.