Then I catch the man’s silhouette in the corner of my eye.
He’s sitting on what looks like a picnic table, his legs kicked up on the bench. A thick fog of mist engulfs his face, hiding his features. Not mist, actually—smoke. Cigarette smoke.
“I’m pregnant,” I snap fiercely. At least, I try to. But my voice comes out weak and scared.
The man climbs off the table and ambles over to me. He’s fat enough to look comical, like a pear with legs, but his eyes are determined. That scares me.
“I’m supposed to let you go because you’re pregnant?”
“You’re supposed to put out the cigarette, at the very least.”
He raises his eyebrows and looks down at the cig in his hand. “Hm,” he says, as though he’s forgotten it’s there. Then he shrugs, throws the cigarette on the floor, and stamps it out with h
