About the baby.
About the articles.
About Anna.
About the sick, ugly fear I let grow until it dragged me here, to this bench, to this woman, to this gun pressed against my side.
I should have asked him.
I should have looked him in the eyes and asked about his wife instead of deciding that some stranger in a park was safer than the man whose child I’m carrying.
I am carrying his child.
And these people know.
“Relax,” Cindy says without looking at me.
I hate her voice.
I hate her stupid face and her ugly haircut.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
The man’s grip tightens. “Quiet.”
My mouth snaps shut.
We move along the path, past the people, past the benches, past the hope that someone will notice.
No one does.
A woman in running clothes passes us. Her ponytail swings. She smiles automatically when she moves around us, polite and unseeing.
Help me.
The words stay trapped behind my teeth.
Because the gun is still there.
Because thefirst bullet goes right into your baby.
My hand twitches toward my stomach.
My blood goes cold.
What are they going to do?
Is this a kidnapping? Are they just going to kill me?
Use me against Mario?
Who are they?
None of the answers matter if they get me to a car.
I know that suddenly with absolute clarity.
We are nearing the edge of the park. The open grass narrows into a paved path leading toward the parking area. Fewer people now. More trees. More space between bodies.
