A mistake—or the cruelty this place masks as kindness. After all she went through and they take away her baby? The rage I’ve been feeding shakes its cage, wanting release. A shadow falls on us. Two guards stand on either side. The slash of red hair tells me all I need to know. Rusty, to my left, winks before reaching down and grabbing one of Betsy’s arms. The second guard grabs the other. They begin to drag her to the door.

“Agatha!” she wails. “Help!”

My face flushes. My breathing deepens. This cannot stand.

“Let her go!” I say through clenched teeth.

One corner of Rusty’s mustache rises as his eyes meet mine. He turns to the other guards. “If this one causes any disturbance,” he says, nodding to me, “feel free to use appropriate force.”

He sounds so professional when he’s not trying to seduce a child. He won’t sound so professional in a second. I clench fists and bare my teeth. He drops Betsy and faces me, his arm out, fingers splayed as if readying for a fight. “Let’s do this,” he says, grinning.

In my head that little voice is screaming, Don’t! Think of Mama and plan B! I look down at Betsy, the hot, crumpled, sobbing mess on the polished linoleum. The voice of reason goes silent as I run toward Rusty.

I slam my shoulder into his chest. Tensed though he was, he underestimated the force of my blow. He crumples backward, his back slamming into a cafeteria table. Trays go flying. Girls scatter. My eyes track a clump of half-eaten fish as it arcs through the air and smacks, wet, onto the linoleum.

Rusty pulls up and shakes his head like a punch-drunk fighter. When his eyes meet mine, the gaze is anticipatory, almost gleeful. He wants to fight. Well, bring it on.

He runs, head down, arms out. I clamber over a table, pushing past two very surprised girls who wrap their arms around their pregnant bellies. “Move!” I shout. They scatter like frightened birds.

Halfway over the tabletop, there’s a hand around my ankle. Rusty’s fingers grip vice-like at my foot and pull backwards. I’m dragged backward on my belly, arms clawing at the tabletop for something to hang on to. My shin hits the bench and pain jolts up my leg. My fingers curl over the table’s far edge and stop my decent into Rusty’s awaiting arms.

“Come on,” he grunts, his mustache twitching. His hand claws up my bleeding shin, drawing me closer. “Come to papa.”