She hurried toward my window and knocked.
I rolled it down.
“Claire?”
I tried to smile.
“Hi, Margaret.”
She stared at the pillow beside me, the blanket around my shoulders, and the swollen shape of my stomach.
“What are you doing?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
She leaned closer.
“Why are you sleeping in your car?”
I could have lied again.
I could have told her the apartment was being painted, or that the heating had broken, or that I had decided to try sleeping somewhere quieter.
Instead, I began to cry.
It was sudden and uncontrollable.
I covered my face, and the first sob came out so violently that it hurt my ribs.
Margaret opened the car door.
“Get out of there, sweetheart.
Slowly.
Come on.”
She helped me stand, one hand supporting my elbow.
I could barely look at her.
“I’m sorry.”
Her expression sharpened.
