Part 2
Then a sharp cramp shot through my lower abdomen, stronger than anything I had ever felt before, and my legs nearly gave out beneath me.
I grabbed the balcony railing with both hands, but my fingers were already too numb to hold on properly. The metal burned like ice against my skin. My breath came out in white bursts, thin and frantic, disappearing into the dark November air.
“Jacob!” I screamed.
My voice cracked.
Inside, the apartment glowed warm and golden. I could see the dining room lights, the half-cleared table, the steam still rising from the gravy boat. Everyone was only a few steps away from me, separated by one pane of glass and Brenda’s cruelty.
I pounded again.
Once. Twice. Again.
My palms stung. My knuckles throbbed. Then they stopped hurting at all, which scared me more.
Another cramp seized me, tighter this time, wrapping around my belly like a fist. I doubled over, gasping, one hand pressed beneath my ribs.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no…”
The baby shifted inside me, then went still.
That was when true terror took hold.
I forgot Brenda. I forgot pride. I forgot the humiliation of begging someone who hated me.
I slid down to my knees and struck the glass with the side of my fist.
“Please!” I sobbed. “Please, somebody! Help me!”
For one moment, Brenda returned.
She appeared in the kitchen, holding a glass of wine, her face flushed and calm. She looked at me through the door as if I were something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
I pressed my forehead to the glass.
“Brenda,” I begged, barely able to form the words. “Something’s wrong. Please. The baby.”
Her expression changed.
Not with concern.
With calculation.
