When I said I needed something cheap, I didn’t mean boutique charm with handmade quilts and locally sourced honey for your afternoon tea. I meant a room with a clean mattress and no bed bugs. Also, a lock that actually worked. Maybe running to the northeast wasn’t my most brilliant idea. I’m over four hours away from my parents, which isn’t nearly far enough. Just like Winston, they’re probably looking for me—well, for the version of me they expect to find.

Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep much. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain turned into an over-caffeinated accountant, crunching numbers and recalculating how long I could stretch what little money I have left.

The answer is definitely not seven months. If I have to stay in this place, the money will be gone in a couple of weeks. How am I supposed to survive until the baby is here—and after? I should start by going to the doctor. The over-the-counter test was positive, the morning sickness is obvious and . . . well, I need a professional to confirm that this is really happening.

Wouldn’t it be better if it’s some kind of bug that I caught and I only need some antibiotics? Stop, Henrietta, you’re delusional if you believe you’re not pregnant. I mean, Winston was trying hard to get me to do at least one thing right. Yep, that’s how he called it every time he . . . I let out a long breath because I shouldn’t be remembering what he did to me. It’s over. He’s gone.

I have to focus on the now and my future.

Delilah gave me the number for the free clinic. They have free services and medications. Once I feel good enough, I can start working with her. Of course, I didn’t tell her that according to my frantic late-night internet search, morning sickness could last another four weeks—at least. How would she take the news that I’m not only homeless but a pregnant runaway? The town will be kicking me out before I’m halfway through my first shift at the coffee shop.

And after yesterday’s little public humiliation at the coffee shop, I can probably cross Atlas Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is off the list of potential employers. Not that I wanted the job, but still. He didn’t trust me. I didn’t trust him. We have a mutual understanding, I suppose.

By six a.m., I’m knocking on the back door of The Honey Drop. Delilah has been here since four in the morning, which makes me question everything I know about human endurance. She opens the door, wiping her hands on her apron, her hair already wearing at least half a cup of flour.

“This is a little too early, don’t you think?”

“Baker hours,” she says with a knowing grin. “You get used to it.”

I doubt it.

“How are you feeling?”