Chapter 2: The Kitchen Window Became the Only Exit
The vase was heavier than it looked. Its weight pulled my arm downward as I held it beside the kitchen window, and another contraction tightened through my body before I could swing. I pressed one hand against the counter and waited for the pain to pass enough for me to see clearly.
The window showed the neighboring house beyond the dark backyard. Its outline was faint, broken by reflections from the kitchen lights. There was no one standing outside. The front door was still unusable. The two deadbolts remained engaged from the other side, and the knowledge of that sat in my mind with the same hard certainty as the glass in my hand.
I lifted the vase.
For one second, I thought about the noise it would make. Then I thought about making no noise at all.
I struck the window.
The vase hit near the lower part of the glass with a sharp, heavy crack. The impact jolted my wrist. The window fractured outward in branching lines, and a second blow broke through the weakened center. The vase shattered with it, dropping from my hand in pieces that flashed across the counter and floor.
I stumbled backward.
Small shards scattered over the kitchen tiles. Larger pieces clung to the frame before falling into the yard. A cold current entered through the opening, carrying the night air into the room. I kept my bare feet still, afraid to move without seeing where the glass had landed, while another wave of labor gathered low and strong.
The pain bent me over the counter.
When it eased, I reached for the cell phone. It was close enough to touch, but a fragment of glass lay beside it. I used the edge of my hand to push the fragment away, picked up the phone, and held it against my palm. The screen lit my fingers. I kept it within reach as I moved toward the broken window, stopping before the bright scatter of glass on the floor.
The opening was not an exit. It was only a way to be heard.
I leaned toward the backyard and called for help. My voice came out rough and uneven. I called again, directing everything toward the neighboring house. The words did not matter as much as the sound. I needed someone to understand that I was inside, that I could not use the front door, that waiting was becoming more dangerous with every contraction.
The house across the yard remained dark.
I gripped the phone tighter and tried again. My breath caught halfway through the cry. The broken frame pressed cold air against my face, and the kitchen behind me smelled of dust, glass, and the sharp clean scent left by the vase before it broke.
Then a porch light came on.
It appeared beyond the backyard, sudden and pale, outlining the neighboring house and the edge of the porch. I froze near the window. The light did not open a path, but it changed the darkness. Someone had noticed something. Someone was awake.
I raised one hand toward the porch, careful not to step forward. My body tightened again, and I held the counter until the contraction passed. The phone remained in my other hand. Behind me, the deadbolts kept the front entrance closed. In front of me, the broken window exposed a dangerous strip of floor between me and the only person who might reach the house.
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A figure moved near the neighbor's porch.
I called out once more. The figure turned toward the kitchen window, and the porch light stayed on.
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