I stood frozen in the doorway, the cheap motel light spilling across the bed where Max lay tangled with Willow, her leg draped over his hip, both naked and asleep. My breath caught like glass in my throat. I dropped the birthday cake I’d baked—the one with ‘I forgive you’ written in pink frosting—splattering vanilla and red onto the carpet.

I ran. Not home—at least, not what they called home. The trailer smelled of burnt foil and sweat. Inside, William was curled under the kitchen table, blood dripping from his nose. Winston was sobbing behind the bathroom door. Dad roared, 'You think you can steal from me, boy?' A belt cracked against skin.

Mom lay on the couch, eyes half-open, a silver spoon beside her. She mumbled, 'Not now, Winter,' before snorting another line.

I held my brothers that night, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. In the morning, the test showed two lines. Max’s child. Mine.

Now I’m packing duffel bags, stuffing diapers, crackers, and birth certificates. We’re leaving. Tonight. On a Greyhound to Florida. I found a strip club hiring—'Sapphire Lounge.' They don’t ask questions. Just need a fake ID and desperation.

But the bus leaves in two hours. And Dad’s truck just pulled into the driveway.