Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
“That’s a good start,” I say. “Weird is survivable. We can manage weird.”
Mara appears at my elbow as if she teleported right beside me.
“We’ll take it from here,” she says, voice low so it doesn’t carry to the kids.
“You can stay through food if you want, but you don’t have to.
Sometimes it’s easier on them if the people who pulled them out don’t hover while they’re trying to figure out if this place is real.
They need to bond with the new adults, so they don’t keep looking at you like the only fire exits. ”
Sterling folds his arms, looks around the room, then back at me. “You okay to leave them?” he asks gently.
No. Not even close. My mind keeps bringing me back to what I may be carrying, imagining what if one of these kids were mine… “Yeah,” I lie.
Sterling meets my eyes. For a second, the noise drops away—the kids chattering, the clinking of dishes. It’s just the two of us with the weight of everything we’re not saying. “Ten minutes,” he says quietly. “We do one more lap, let them see us saying bye, then we go.”
“Deal.” I exhale, giving him a bittersweet smile.
We take that last walk, checking in, trading a few more bad jokes, pointing out bathrooms, light switches, and the fact that the only door that has a lock is the front door.
When we finally make it back to the entryway, Mara’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, like she knew exactly how long it would take us to pry our fingers off.
“You did your part,” she says as she wraps me up in a tight squeeze. “Let us do ours.”
“Don’t let anyone from Cicada set foot on your sidewalk,” I whisper.
Mara’s eyes gleam with wicked satisfaction. “They won’t like how that ends,” she promises, the words dripping with poisoned honey... “We’ll see you soon.”
We step back out into the night. The door closes behind us, the lock clicking into place, turning the house into a sealed box of light and possibility. Sterling exhales, a long, slow breath. “Ready?” he asks.
No, my heart screams at me. Begging me to stay with the children. “Yeah,” I say, heading for the truck, toward the warehouse, toward the rest of the mess waiting for us. “Let’s go reset home base before something else breaks.”
The highway hums underneath the tires. Sterling leads in the van, a boxy shadow in my headlights.
Cam’s car follows a few lengths back, Lila riding back shotgun with him, their silhouettes trading gestures every so often.
My phone is facing down on the passenger seat.
It buzzes once. My stomach drops like someone cut a wire.
The screen glows against the dark, Dr. L’s name flashing across the screen.
I want to let it go to voicemail. I check the mirrors, then hit accept and bring it to my ear, keeping my other hand welded to the wheel.
“Hey,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near frayed.
“Tell me you’re calling to complain about my bedside manner and not for any real reason. ”
“Hi, Kiera.” Dr. L’s voice is warm and sharp at the same time, just as before. “You driving?”
“Yes,” I say. “We’re headed to another safehouse.”
“I’ll keep it short then. I got your labs.”
My throat dries out in an instant. “And?” I ask, the word scraping on the way out.
“And the test wasn’t lying,” she says. “HCG’s elevated. You’re pregnant.”
It’s real. This is happening. My heart's racing, every fear rising up. What if Sterling doesn’t want a child? Could I do this alone? Can I do it all? “Okay,” I manage. “So not my body being dramatic for fun.”
“No,” she sighs. “Your body is being dramatic for a very valid reason.”
I force myself to breathe with the road. Sterling’s van holds steady ahead of me. Cam’s headlights stay where they’re supposed to be in the rearview. “Give me the short version,” I say. “Pretend I’m one of your normal patients.”
“You’re early. Your hormone levels are where I’d expect them to be—no immediate red flags on the panels.
If you want to continue the pregnancy, we need to start thinking about real prenatal care in the next few weeks.
If you don’t want to continue, we’re in the safer window to make that decision without you doing something stupid or dangerous. ”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Love that I apparently give off likely to do something stupid vibes,” I scoff.
“You give off cornered animal vibes,” Dr. L says calmly.
Out the windshield, the highway curves, my body on autopilot, while my brain tries to rearrange itself around the word as it progresses. “So, it’s real,” I whisper.
“It was real when you peed on the stick,” she says. “It’s just confirmed now. Reality doesn’t wait for you to be ready; it just keeps happening. The only control you get is how you respond.”
I swallow, mouth tasting like metal. “Do I need to be doing anything right now?” I ask. “Besides, don't drive into a tree.”
“Not immediately,” she confirms. “Just avoid anything that can cause heavy impacts, no new experimental drugs, no deciding today is the day you test how far you can push your pain tolerance. You’d be surprised how often I have to say that last one to people who grew up with normal lives.”
I huff out a breath that almost passes for a laugh. “No promises on that third one. My whole life is a series of let’s see if this kills me.”
“I’ll send you a summary of the labs, along with a list of things to avoid and things to watch for. Then we talk options when you’re not in motion.”
“And the privacy situation?” I ask. “Any chance this pinged on any systems?”
“I ran everything off-grid,” Dr. L says. “As far as anyone knows, you never entered any systems.”
The van’s brake lights flare briefly up ahead as Sterling adjusts speed for a slower car.
I ease off the gas, matching him, and sliding into the other lane when he does.
We move like we’ve done this a hundred times.
“What if I don’t decide?” I ask. “What if I just… keep moving and let it happen or not happen around me?”
“Then you’ve made a decision.” Nothing but blunt truth in her voice. “You’ve decided to let other people’s choices dictate the outcome. Your body’s. Phase IVs, Sterling’s, or what you think his choice would be.”
The name steals every ounce of breath in me as I force my eyes to stay on the road. “I don’t even know how to tell him,” I admit quietly. “What am I supposed to say? Hey, remember the opera? Surprise ending loading.”
“Start by telling yourself,” she says. “Out loud. Preferably, when you’re not also operating heavy machinery.”
“That sounds terrible,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “But it’s step one.” For a moment, the only sound is the faint hiss of air through the vents. “Do you want my medical opinion,” she asks quietly, “or a friend’s?”
“Both.”
“Medically, you’re in good enough shape to carry a pregnancy, with appropriate care, assuming no surprises.
You’re also living in a high-stress, high-risk environment that makes that more complicated than it would be for, say, someone whose biggest daily threat is missing a bus.
If you choose to continue, I’d want to see you regularly and have an actual plan. ”
“And friend?” I ask.
“As a friend…I think you’ve been making choices based on other people’s experiments your entire life.
Whether you keep this pregnancy or end it, I want it to be the first thing you do purely because it’s what you want, not what you think they want from you, not what you think makes you more or less useful as a weapon. ”
“Not sure I remember how to want things,” I say.
“Then this is as good a time as any to relearn,” she says.
“Okay.”
“You need to get where you’re going without dying, eat something, and rest. Read the summary I sent. Then, when you’re ready, call me back, and we’ll talk about whether you want referrals for prenatal care or termination. No judgment attached to either.”
“You’re really not going to tell me what you think I should do,” I groan, laying my head back.
“No, my opinion is irrelevant.”
“I am asking,” I say, softer than I mean to.
On the other end of the line, I hear Dr. L exhale slowly.
“I think,” she says slowly, “that the part of you that called me instead of pretending this was nothing already knows it doesn’t want the program anywhere near this.
The rest is up to you to figure out whether you want it enough to fight the war that comes with keeping it.
Or whether you’re allowed to say you’re not ready and walk away without turning that into another weapon to hurt yourself with. ”
The van’s turn signal clicks on up ahead. We’re close to the highway exit that will start threading us back toward the warehouse. “I don’t know yet,” I say. “I don’t know if I want it. I just know I don’t want them to have it.”
“That’s a start,” she says. “You’re allowed to be a work in progress.”
We hit the exit ramp, tires thumping over the seams. I mirror Sterling’s movements and stay tucked behind his van. “Okay,” I say. “Send the labs. I’ll… think about it. That’s the best I can promise right now.”
“It’s enough,” she says. “You’re allowed to take longer than a car ride to decide the shape of your life. Drive safe, Kiera. Call me when your brain stops spinning so fast.”
“Unlikely,” I say. “But I’ll try.” We disconnect the call, the phone screen going dark, leaving me with nothing but the dashboard glow and my own pulse roaring in my ears.
Sterling’s van takes the turn toward the industrial district, signal blinking steadily.
Behind me, Cam’s headlights hold the back line.
Pregnant, the word flashes in my mind like a glowing neon light.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, angle us toward the shadows of the warehouse district, and let the convoy pull me forward into whatever comes next.
No matter what, I have to tell him. This isn’t my burden to carry alone, and he deserves a say in this, too.