Novels by Victory Ezeagu

Thirty-five weeks.And my body feels like it’s holding its breath.Twins rarely make it to full term. Everyone knows that. The clinic told me, “Expect labor between 34 and 37 weeks.” So every cramp, every pressure, every sudden gush of fluid could be the beginning.I’m not waiting for a date. I’m waiting for a moment. And it could come anytime.My back aches constantly now. Nate’s dropped lower, kicking my bladder so I pee ten times a night. Leo’s still high, elbows jabbing my ribs like he’s practicing jabs for the ring. I can’t sleep lying down. Can’t walk without waddling. Can’t tie my shoes without sitting on the floor.But the physical pain isn’t what keeps me up.It’s the fear that labor will start tonight—and I won’t be ready.Ready to fight. Ready to run. Ready to save him.The man from Evelyn’s office didn’t come back. But the surveillance hasn’t stopped. A new camera appeared above the bodega down the street. The woman in nurse’s scrubs still lingers at the bus stop,

Thirty-four weeks.And they know I stole from them.I felt it the moment I stepped outside this morning. The air was too still. The street too quiet. Even the pigeons seemed to be watching. I kept my head down, walked fast, hand resting low on my belly where Leo’s been quiet all night. Nate kicked once—sharp, warning—but that was it. Like even they know something’s coming.At the bus stop, I saw it: a new camera mounted above the laundromat across the street. Not there yesterday. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just boarded the bus and took a seat facing backward so I could watch them watch me.Two stops later, a man in a gray jacket got on. Sat three rows behind me. Didn’t read. Didn’t look at his phone. Just stared out the window like he was memorizing the route. I got off early. Walked three blocks out of my way. Turned down an alley. Waited behind a dumpster. He followed. I didn’t run. Didn’t panic. I walked straight up to him. “You lost?” I asked, voice steady. He blinked. “Just h

Thirty-three weeks.And I just crossed a line I can’t uncross.I broke into the Sterling clinic.Not for money. Not for revenge. For proof.After the woman in the cream suit showed up at my door, after the black sedan circled the block twice, after the clinic “accidentally” missed my weekly call, I knew they were watching. But I needed to know how much they knew. So I went back. Not as a patient. As a thief.I took the bus at dawn, wearing my oldest hoodie, hair tucked under a baseball cap, face scrubbed clean like I was invisible. I walked two blocks past the AQUA West tower and doubled back through the alley. No cameras there. Just delivery doors and loading docks.The private fertility wing is on the third floor. I’ve been there a dozen times for shots, ultrasounds, blood draws. I know the layout. Know the staff. Know the blind spots.The records room is at the end of the hall, next to the server closet. Cheap lock. I picked it with a bobby pin I’d straightened in the diner’s fry

Thirty-two weeks. My body feels like it’s splitting at the seams. Nate’s wedged under my ribs—every kick steals my breath. Leo’s dropped so low I can’t walk without waddling, can’t sleep without peeing every hour. I tie my shoes sitting down now. Sleep sitting up. Even standing still makes my back ache like it’s been kicked. This isn’t just pregnancy. It’s survival. Then today happened. I was mopping the diner floor at noon, sweat dripping down my neck, when I felt it—a warm trickle down my leg. My stomach dropped. Thirty-two weeks. Too early. Way too early. Rosa saw my face go pale. She didn’t ask questions. Just shoved a towel at me and said, “Go. I’ll cover.” I walked to the bus stop in soaked pants, heart slamming against my ribs. I didn’t go to the Sterling clinic. Never again. I took the bus downtown to County General—the public hospital where no one knows my name. The nurse took one look and frowned. “You’re leaking fluid. At thirty-two weeks. With twins.” “I’m

I started craving pickles and peanut butter. Not like I wanted them. I needed them. Like my bones were screaming for it. Woke up at 4 a.m. thinking about the smell of dill vinegar. Dreamed about dipping a pickle spear into a spoonful of that cheap, oily peanut butter from the 99¢ store. At work, the smell of onions made me run to the bathroom to puke. Came back, shaky, and just stared at the peanut butter jar in the pantry like it owed me money.Rosa found me one night eating pickles straight from the jar, standing over the sink so the juice wouldn’t drip on my uniform.“Twins,” she said. Not a question. A fact.I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Didn’t answer.She didn’t push. Just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her apron. “My sister carried twins. Ate chalk for three months. Real school chalk. Said her body felt empty, like it was screaming for minerals. Like it knew.”I nodded. That’s it exactly. Not hunger. Like my insides were hollowed out and needed filling—wit

I thought I was safe.After wiring my father that $20,000, I told myself it was over. He’d disappear to Vegas, lose it at the tables, maybe sober up long enough to play a few sets, and I’d get six months of quiet. Just me, the babies, and the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner.But money like mine doesn’t vanish quietly. It echoes.Three days later, my bank login stopped working.I was at the library, checking balances like I always did—quick, furtive, like someone might see me and know I had something worth stealing. The screen froze. Then: “Account restricted. Contact your branch.”My stomach dropped.I called the number on the back of my debit card, heart hammering against my ribs. A recorded voice said my account had been “flagged for suspicious activity.” When I finally got a live person, a woman with a bored voice said, “Looks like a large withdrawal was made this morning. $559,000. You’ll need to visit in person to dispute.”I hung up.$559,000. Not all of it. But almost ev