I'll do anything.
I'll survive anything.
Just please let my baby be alive.
As if in answer, I feel a tiny flutter.
A kick. Weak, but there.
Tears soak into the blindfold.
Thank you. Thank you.
I don't know who I'm thanking—God, the universe, my own stubborn body—but it doesn't matter.
The baby's alive. That's all that matters.
The vehicle stops.
Doors open.
Cold air rushes in.
Hands grab me, drag me out, and my knees buckle when they hit the ground.
Gravel bites into my skin through my jeans.
I can smell pine trees and wet earth and something else.
Smoke, maybe.
Or rot.
"Get her inside."
Virgil's voice.
I'd know it anywhere.
That smooth, cruel tone that used to mean drugs and desperation.
That now means something so much worse.
They drag me across the gravel, up steps, through a door.
The floor changes from concrete to wood.
The air changes too—warmer, stale, smelling of mildew and old cigarettes.
Someone pushes me down into a chair.
Hard.
The impact jolts through my body, and I cry out against the tape over my mouth.
"Take off the blindfold. I want her to see where she is."
Light floods my vision as the blindfold is ripped away.
