The boy glanced at the gleaming vehicle, then at her, then back. Most people in this part of town would have kept walking. He didn’t.
“Pop the hood,” he said simply.
She did. He leaned in, flashlight from his pocket cutting through the dark. A few minutes later he straightened. “Alternator’s shot. Ain’t fixin’ that tonight. But I can get you somewhere dry.”
Elena hesitated. She had grown up wealthy, married wealthier, taught never to trust strangers—especially not in places like this. But another contraction-like twinge reminded her she didn’t have many options.
The boy led her through alleys she never would have found on her own, to an old brick warehouse that had been converted into makeshift shelter by a dozen or so unhoused people. Cardboard dividers, battery lanterns, a small fire in a metal drum. He gave her his only dry blanket and the spot closest to the warmth.
“Name’s Marcus,” he said, handing her a half-bottle of water he’d clearly been saving. “You got anybody comin’?”
“My husband,” she whispered. “He’ll find me. He always does.”
Marcus nodded like he believed it, even though most people in his world knew better.
Hours passed. Elena’s water broke just before dawn.