I always thought my father’s gilded cage was hell on earth.
But maybe I was just naïve.
Even still, I thought that had been stomped out of me. That I looked ordinary now.
It took Tonya all of three seconds to sniff me out.
She knows who I really am.
“She’s got a baby,” Maisie notes pointedly, ignoring Tonya’s previous comment.
“I can smell the little shitter from here,” Tonya snaps.
Only then do I realize that Phoenix needs another diaper change.
Fuck me. That’s six diapers down.
“Anyway,” Tonya continues, looking up at Maisie again, “what’s that got to do with me?”
Maisie hesitates for a moment before plowing ahead. “I know you like the bottom bunk—”
“Fuck no!”
“Tonya…” Maisie sighs.
“The bottom bunk is mine!”
“She’s got a baby,” Maisie points out. She sounds exhausted. “A young baby, by the looks of it. She’s not going to be able to climb up and down every time she wants to get some rest.”
“That’s not my fucking problem,” the woman snaps with a vicious glare in my direction. “I’m not giving up my bunk.”
“It’s not your bunk,” Maisie says, her tone growing cold. “It’s the property of the state. And since I’ve been tasked with managing this shelter, I get to decide—"
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, stepping in. “It’s fine. I’ll take the top bunk.”
Maisie raises her eyebrows and stares at me. “You will?”
I glance at the top bunk with trepidation, knowing that it will be difficult to maneuver with my wound still fresh from the C-section.
“I… um… sure,” I say lamely. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”
“Then maybe you should find another shelter.” Tonya drawls. “That brat of yours is certainly gonna cause problems and I like to sleep peacefully at night.”
“Enough!” Maisie snaps. “Emily, if you can manage the top bunk, then fine. We serve three meals a day in the dining area. The meal times are taped to the door next to the front desk. That’s all.”
Then she turns on her heel and walks out, leaving me with a group of women who don’t look at all happy to be sharing a room with an infant and—in Tonya’s words—a “princess.”
“You better keep that brat quiet,” one wild-eyed woman yaps at me before turning in her bunk and pulling a blanket over her head.
A few just give me dark glances and went back to whatever they were doing. But others kept their eyes trained on me, warning me with bared teeth and angry eyes not to fuck with their corner of the world.
There’s only one other woman in the room looking at me with something that comes close to sympathy.
She looks older, about fifty or so, and she’s so thin that the skin around her eyes and mouth is worn down like tissue paper.
As she approaches me, I see the line of silver scars on both her arms. They’re so perfectly aligned that they can only be self-inflicted.
“My name’s Nancy,” she says in a voice just one notch above a whisper. “If you want, I can look after your baby.”