I stopped with the door halfway open and turned back to look at him. “If you ever see me in here again, you’ll need them.”

The walk home felt longer and colder without Melanie next to me. When I passed the Mercer house, two doors down from ours, I wondered who was watching Matthew and his sister. Then I wondered if Sister Camilla had ever let the poor kid off his knees. The Church had discretion—she could keep him until his parents came and signed for him if she wanted, and there was little his parents could do or say about it without seeming to support their son’s sins.

A child’s behavior was widely considered a reflection of his parents’ private lives, and few ever protested a child’s harsh punishment for fear of being declared an unfit caregiver and losing custody of the “sinful” child in question.

The drizzle had stopped, but daylight was already fading, accelerated by the dreary cloud cover. Soon Matthew could add his fear of the dark to his current cold, wet misery.

Our house was quiet when I went in through the back door, careful not to let it slam behind me. Mom usually slept through dinner, and most days, if we were careful, by the time she got up we’d already be in our room for the night, whispering while we finished our homework. But now things had changed. I’d planned for us to eat one of the cans of soup I’d taken from the Turners, with a slice of bread each, but was that enough for an expectant mother? Should I make both cans? Or give her the last of the peanut butter as well?

I’d just burned my bridge at the only store within walking distance, which meant that when the soup and peanut butter were gone, I’d have to break into the emergency cash for bus fare to an actual grocery store and either pay for some food or risk getting caught shoplifting by employees whose habits I didn’t know.

One more year.

If Mellie and Adam had waited one more year to give in to their hormones, I would have been old enough to work full-time.

But then, I had no high ground to stand on. I couldn’t even claim to have loved the boys I’d used in my carnal rebellion against the Church. At least my sister had that—someone who loved her. And surely once she told him about the baby, he’d want to help feed it.

And its mother.

Melanie’s satchel hung over her chair at the kitchen table, but that was the only obvious sign that she’d made it home. When I opened the bedroom door, my sister sat up on the bed, her eyes wide with fear until she recognized me in the dying light from the half-covered window. “Did she wake up?” I whispered, pulling the door closed behind me.