Christine pressed the icon to enlarge the video to full screen, and as soon as the photo expanded, she found herself swallowing hard. Once again, something about the prisoner’s hair struck her as their donor’s. Nevertheless, she waited, stomach clenched, as she watched the prisoner duck to get into the back of the police cruiser, then he looked up one last time. Christine hit STOP, but her hand was shaking. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The man’s blue eyes. The look around his face. His aspect in general, all of it struck her the same way it had before. He looked like their donor.

Marcus came over, setting the glass of ice water on the counter, the ice tinkling. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I can see better this way. Marcus, I can’t help it. This guy looks like our donor.”

“It’s not, honey.” Marcus put an arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze. “You’re worrying for nothing, really.”

“Watch it with me again, full screen, would you?”

“Okay.” Marcus leaned over, frowning. “Start the video.”

“It’s easier to see on the bigger screen.” Christine started the video and played it until the frame when the prisoner looked up from the backseat. “Doesn’t that look like him?”

“It looks a little like him. But it doesn’t look like it is him.” Marcus shook his head. “As I said in the car, this guy has a narrower face, especially around the cheekbones.”

“So you see him as more gaunt than our donor?”

“Exactly, he has a longer face.” Marcus raked his bangs from his forehead, which was whiter than the rest of his face, a golfer’s tan. “Really, believe me. You’re worrying over nothing.”

“But I am worrying.” Christine couldn’t let it go. She could never let anything go.

“Why don’t you call Lauren?”

“I texted her from the car. She’s going to come over after the kids are asleep.”

Marcus blinked. “Why didn’t you just send her a link to the video?”

“I wanted to see her reaction. Hold on a sec. I have another idea.”

“What?” Marcus asked, beginning to lose patience. He withdrew his arm from her shoulder.

“Bear with me.” Christine was already pulling the accordion file that held their medical information. There had been so many bills related to the infertility procedures, forms upon forms to fill out to get what they could covered, and the files took up five accordions. The last accordion was the one that held their donor profiles, probably a hundred pages of bios that they had printed out from the banks.

“What’s the point?” Marcus sighed.

“Hang in one more minute.” Christine rummaged through the donor profiles, passing the Sperm Bank of California with its characteristic green banners, the smaller old-fashioned font of Fairfax Cryobank, and coming finally to the bright red borders of their bank, Homestead, with its cute logo of a house and a heart inside. Dr. Davidow used banks all over the country, but had sent them to these three because he rotated the banks among his patient base, explaining his reason with characteristic candor.

I do it so donor-conceived children aren’t concentrated in the same geographic area. You don’t want to have a Gymboree class full of 3319 offspring, do you?

Marcus shifted his feet. “Babe, I have things to do. The dog wants to go out, and I need to return some phone calls.”

“Here we go.” Christine found the Donor 3319 profile, stapled together at the corner, then pointed to the first page of the form. “Under Physical Characteristics, it says ‘Hair Color—Blond,’ ‘Hair Type—straight, fine.’ Our donor has fine hair, like the guy in the video.”

Marcus eyed her with disbelief. “You can’t tell if somebody has fine hair on a video.”

“Well, not absolutely accurately, but I had the idea.” Christine read to the next entry, Complexion. “Plus the skin is the same. It says, ‘fair, rosy, creamy.’”

“Donor 3319 has ‘creamy’ skin?” Marcus chuckled. “The interviewer had a crush on him.”

“The guy in the video was also fair-skinned.”

“But was he creamy?” Marcus lifted an eyebrow, his crow’s-feet wrinkling with irony.

“Look, I don’t know what ‘creamy’ means either, but—”

“I do. The interviewer was creamy. Good luck.” Marcus pulled open the top drawer and grabbed an old tennis ball from among the rubber Kong Balls and raggedy canvas pull toys, which set Murphy trotting over, his tail wagging and his toenails clicking on the tile floor.

“Marcus, please look at this bio with me.”

Marcus closed the drawer. “No, you do it. Knock yourself out. I said my piece. I’m done.” He bounced the tennis ball once, as if punctuating his sentence, then turned and left the kitchen with the dog dancing around his heels.

Christine swallowed hard, returning her attention to the profile of Donor 3319. After Height, Weight, Hair Color, Hair Type, Complexion, and Eye Color, was a typically breezy profile from an interview with him, which was written by the interviewer. Christine had memorized the interviews, but Marcus thought they were ridiculous.

Are you kidding me? he had said, reading the interview notes from Donor 3319’s profile. “At 6 foot 3 inches with conventional good looks and a masculine build, Donor 3319 could be a tennis professional. He came to the interview wearing a white polo shirt from Ralph Lauren, khaki pants, and Teva sandals, and though his clothes fit comfortably, they did not hide his musculature.” Marcus had looked up, laughing. What the hell?

She has to give her impression. It says at the top of the form, “Interview notes are intended to give a subjective idea of how the donor appears to an experienced interviewer and are not intended as medical information.”

I know, but it has to be factual to be useful.

It tells you how he relates, and that she liked him. That’s useful to know.

Why? Who cares who she likes?

We want a donor who’s likable.

We want likable sperm? Marcus had laughed. If I had sperm, would it be likable?

It would be lovable.

Marcus had smiled and resumed reading the form, but then started shaking his head. “Donor 3319 has shiny blond hair, so much so that I found myself asking him what conditioner he uses.” Are you freaking kidding me?