Chapter Forty-One
Brooklyn
Night here is not like night anywhere else.
It does not fall; it drops, suddenly and completely, like someone has blown out the sky. One moment there is a bruised-blue dimness, trees still outlined against the horizon. The next, it’s as if the world has folded inward, swallowing color, sound, space — leaving only us and the cold.
So much cold.
I don’t remember ever being this cold before. It isn’t just on my skin — it has reached inside me, moving into my ribs, settling in my lungs, threading itself along my spine. I shiver constantly now, not in quick tremors but in slow, deep shudders that feel like my bones shaking.
Caleb and I stopped under a cluster of pine trees just after dusk — branches heavy and low, forming a shelter that breaks the wind. There is no fire. Fire would give away our position. Fire would make smoke. Smoke rises. He would see it.
So we endure the dark.
Caleb sits a few feet away, back against a tree, his silhouette outlined faintly by the thin wash of moonlight. His posture is controlled, but not forced — a kind of ready stillness. I’ve never met someone who takes up so little space while still feeling present.
We don’t speak often. Words feel dangerous.
After what feels like hours, I shift — just a small movement, just to try and get feeling back into my legs—And the pain hits.
It’s sudden and deep and low in my abdomen — a familiar sharp tightening that rips a gasp out of me before I can stop it. I fold forward instinctively, one hand clutching the frozen ground, the other clutching my stomach.
Caleb is beside me instantly — not grabbing, not touching without permission — just there.
“What is it?” His voice is quiet, steady.
My breathing comes fast and shallow, every inhale like dragging something through ice. “No," I panic whisper, tears filling my eyes as fear fills every inch of my being, along with the pain. "It hurts—”
“Where?” he asks, calm but alert.
I press a palm just below my navel, trying to keep the fear from spilling over. “My stomach. Low. It’s— it feels almost like it did when I would miscarry.”
His eyes flicker — assessing, not panicking. Caleb never panics. I cling to that.
“How far along are you?” he asks, voice soft.
“Almost three months,” I whisper. “Not enough for— for labor but it could be—"
Caleb shakes his head, confident but gentle. “Don't think like that. It’s likely due to the strain on your body. Your muscles are freezing. You’ve been running. You haven’t had water. Your body’s trying to protect what it can.”
The pain pulses again, and I have to bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. Tears burn hot behind my eyes — shocking in the cold.
“But it feels—” I start, stopping as fear consumes me again.
“It feels terrifying, I know,” Caleb says quietly. “But terrifying isn’t always dangerous.”
His tone is careful — like he’s talking to a skittish animal trapped inside its own body. Maybe he is.
My breath catches again — too fast, too shallow, too much — Caleb moves closer — slow, easy movements — lowering himself to my level.
“Brooklyn.” His voice is level. Warm. Steady enough to anchor to. “Look at me.”
I force myself to lift my head.
His expression is not pity. Not fear. Not judgment.
Just presence.
“Breathe with me,” he says.
He inhales — deep and unhurried.
I try. My breath stutters, shakes, breaks. But I try again.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Slowly, the pain loosens — not gone, but its grip eases, releasing its teeth.
I collapse back against the pine trunk, exhausted. I feel wrung out. Like every nerve has been dragged across gravel.
Caleb watches me quietly, giving me space to catch myself.
“You’re dehydrated,” he says softly. “And your core temperature is dropping. Muscles tighten to protect organs. For you, that means it hits here.” He nods toward my stomach.
My hand moves instinctively to my abdomen. Protective. Tender. Fragile.
I swallow hard. “I can’t lose—”
“You’re not going to,” Caleb interrupts, firm enough to cut through the fear.
“But—”
“You’re not.” His voice is steady as the ground beneath us. “Your body is still protecting the baby. That’s what the pain is. Not failure. Protection.”
Something in my chest loosens — not fully, but enough to breathe again.
Caleb rises quietly and removes his sweater — thick, worn, heavy with trapped warmth — pulls his coat off and then slips the sweater over my head before guiding my arms through the sleeves, then drapes his coat around my shoulders once more, showing me the kind of care one normally reserves for something breakable.
I try to protest. “You’ll freeze—”
“I’m built for cold,” he says simply. “You’re not.”
I don’t know if that’s entirely true.
But I don’t argue again.
He sits again — close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I needed to — but he doesn’t force touch, doesn’t assume.
Just presence.
The forest hums faintly with nighttime. Branches shifting. Snow settling. The quiet breathing of something ancient and indifferent.
My body is still trembling — from pain, cold, exhaustion — but my breathing is steadier now.
Caleb breaks the silence after a while.
“We’ll need to move at first light,” he says. “Slowly. Controlled. No sudden pushes. We stay under cover, avoid open snow."
I nod, though the idea of walking again feels impossible.
He continues, voice softer, “You’re doing everything right.”
The words hit something vulnerable and aching inside me. Something that has felt like failure since the moment I ran.
I blink hard, the tears I'd barely been holding back, finally slipping free.
Caleb looks away — not out of discomfort, but out of respect. Giving me privacy inside my own pain.
I press a shaking hand over my stomach.
There is no flutter — not yet — but there is presence.
There is stillness that is not empty.
I close my eyes and whisper — not a prayer, not a promise — just truth:
“We’re going to be okay.”
It is fragile. Trembling. But it is mine.
Caleb’s voice comes like a quiet anchor.
“We are.”
We sit in the cold and the silence and the dark.
Two survivors.
Two hunted things.
Breathing.
Holding on.
And waiting for morning.
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