I make a snap decision and turn left down a side alley. It’s narrow, but it’s a shortcut, and there are businesses on the other side. It’ll get me to the main road faster. I’ll be fine.
Halfway through, I hear a voice. Low. Commanding.
“Stop.”
I turn. Two men. Both masked and walking toward me with too much purpose. My blood freezes.
“What do you want?” I manage, my voice trembling.
One of them pulls a knife from his coat.
Panic spikes like ice water in my veins. I scream—high and shrill—and swing my purse at the man with the blade. It connects hard and he stumbles back with a grunt. His jacket shifts just enough for me to see the ink curling up the side of his neck; a black scorpion, its tail arched high, stinger poised behind his ear.
Before I can note anything else, the other man is on me. He lunges, slamming me against the brick wall. My shoulder hits first, then the back of my head. Pain explodes white behind my eyes. I crumple, half-conscious, stars dancing in my vision.
I think I hear laughter. Then running.
Another voice, louder this time. Sharp, authoritative. “Chicago PD! Stop!”
The men bolt, vanishing down the alley’s far end. I clutch my side, my breath coming in broken gasps.
The officer jogs toward me, young, clean-shaven, eyes wide with adrenaline. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”
“I—” I blink hard. “I hit my head. I’m dizzy. And…” My hands go to my stomach. “I’m pregnant.”
He crouches next to me instantly, pulling out his radio. “We need an ambulance. Woman assaulted, pregnant, possible loss of consciousness, hit her head.”
“I wasn’t unconscious,” I murmur, still dazed. “Just… dizzy.”
“You’re going to Northwestern Memorial,” he says firmly. “We’re not taking any risks.”
Tears sting my eyes. Not from the pain but from the fear. Whoever those men were, this wasn’t random. I know it. I feel it in my bones.
The thought hollows out something inside me.
“I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.
“Hang in there,” the officer says. “You’re safe now.”
But I don’t feel safe.
Not even close.
I sit on the edge of the bed in a thin hospital gown, the paper beneath me crinkling every time I move. My head is throbbing where it met the wall, and my shoulder aches.
The door opens and the doctor steps in—early thirties, dark skin, clear blue eyes. “Hi, I’m Dr. Ellis,” she greets warmly. “Let’s have a look at you.”
She checks my pupils first, flashing a light across them, asking if I feel nauseated, dizzy, disoriented. Yes. A little. No. In that order. Then she checks for swelling at the base of my skull, tests my reflexes, checks for bruising along my shoulder and my ribs. Her hands are gentle and efficient.
“No signs of a concussion,” she says, typing on her tablet. “You’re banged up, but it looks like nothing’s broken. Now, let’s see about that baby.”
“I haven’t had an ultrasound yet. I’m scheduled for one next week.”
“Okay,” she says, stepping back. “Well, you’re here, so we might as well take a look.” She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. “Hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
I stare at the ceiling, one hand resting protectively over my stomach. A thousand thoughts spin like leaves in a storm. Who were those men? Why were they after me?
The door opens again. A different woman—blonde, maybe forty, with a kind smile and a no-nonsense air about her walks in. She’s wearing pink scrubs and a badge that reads:Dr. Moreno, OB/GYN. A nurse wheels in an ultrasound machine.
