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The Women’s Shelter—South Of Carlsbad, California

“Jesus, does the little brat ever stop crying?” Tonya complains as she soaks her bread in the bowl of potato soup in front of her.

“He’s only four days old.”

I follow her lead and dip my bread in my own soup. It’s stale, so it soaks up the broth pretty well and softens the roll up considerably. I’m not complaining, though. My belly has been satisfied the last three days and I’m never taking that for granted again.

“Still, can’t you do something about the noise?” she groans.

I look down at Phoenix, who’s strapped to my chest as usual. Gabby’s blanket has been a godsend. It’s stitched so long that I can wrap it around my body to secure him in place.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “I’ve changed him and I’ve fed him. He’s just sleepy.”

“So why isn’t he sleeping then?”

“Jesus,” I sigh. “It’s not that damn simple. Clearly, you’ve never been around a baby before.”

Tonya’s eyes go dark for a moment, but then she pushes the anger back and shrugs it off.

“Yeah well, I never got to keep my baby,” she says callously.

“What?” I gasp, looking at her with shock.

I can see the way her slight shoulders tense immediately, but she’s trying hard to act as though it doesn’t affect her.

She runs her hand over her shaved head self-consciously and twists her spoon around in her bowl. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Had a baby a while back. Girl. Didn’t keep her.”

I raise my eyebrows and choose my words carefully. I know the moment I meet Tonya with anything close to sentiment or pity, she’ll pull back and completely ignore me.

“That must have been hard.”

Tonya shrugs. “It wasn’t like I could keep her,” she tells me. “I didn’t know what the fuck to do with her. I could barely keep myself alive at that point. I’m still trying to figure out how to do that.”

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Fifteen.”

“Fuck.”

She smiles. “I love it when you swear.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because you’re like a little Pollyanna princess,” she tells me. “It’s funny.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m no Pollyanna.”

“Yeah, no one buys that shit,” Tonya says.

I feel eyes on me suddenly and I turn slightly to catch Nancy enter the dining area. She’s scratching her arms wildly, her eyes skitter over the crowded tables, looking for a spot to fill.

“Cracko’s here,” Tonya warns me. “Thank fuck our table’s full.”

A part of me feels sorry for Nancy. She looks at Phoenix with a longing that’s impossible to deny.

But I’m also frightened of her.

She’s high through most of the day and prone to bouts of manic emotional highs and lows.


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