FROM THE BOOK Julie wakes, walks into the bathroom. Last night was a start. Ethan touched her. She catches herself. What she sees in the mirror is something she must accept. Paler, heavier, there is no changing who she is or any of what happened. There are still choices. She can run away and start over. A suitcase. A few grand. A farm town. Cows, sheep, anonymity. She can be a ticket taker at a small theater in Iowa. A librarian up in Poughkeepsie. No family. No responsibility. Nothing to owe. But still her father will be with her. No matter where she goes. Always his eyes will shine through her, haunting her this way.

She shares his chin too, even his mouth. Naked, her shoulders are more narrow. Her chest and torso long like her mother's. Her legs a mixture. Their feet the same. Julie stops by the living-room window. There is no snow on the ground and the sun is rising.

Julie enters the darkened kitchen. She can hear Georgie's shower running. Good, she has five, ten minutes until she has to hand her kitchen over. Julie opens the refrigerator. "Happy birthday," she says as she reaches for the peaches.

This is who she is. Another young woman in a T-shirt and sweats. Another mother waiting for her day to begin. There is a baby to feed. A husband to shuffle off to work. Errands to run. Julie fills a small glass with water and opens her medicine. It's okay, she thinks and swallows, everything is okay.

AMY KOPPELMAN is a graduate of Columbia's MFA program. Her writing has appeared in The New York Observer and Lilith.

She lives in New York City with her husband, Brian Koppelman, and their two small children. A Mouthful of Air is her first novel.

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