The next half hour would stay with Lily in clear, sickening detail for the rest of her life. The doctor had a laser probe, at least, but when he began to poke around with it, the woman’s arms strained until Lily’s face and neck were slicked with sweat in the effort to hold her down. Every few minutes the doctor would mutter, “Buried deep, little bastard,” and these mutterings were Lily’s only way to mark the passage of time.