As Danny’s car crossed the border, I clenched the silver wolf emblem tightly, feeling the heat seep into my fingers.The passenger seat was empty, and where the baby carrier should have been, there was only a leather envelope.“Still hurting?” He looked at me through the rearview mirror, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest of the wheelchair. “The pack doctor said you need three more months of rest.”I shook my head, pulling back the blanket to reveal the scar on my wrist—a reminder from the last “accident” when I had fallen and scraped it against the stair railing.“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “not compared to what’s inside.”Last night, when packing my things, I opened the cardboard box under the bed. The folate pill packets were oxidized and dark, the expiration date frozen at last winter—back when I still clung to a sliver of hope, counting the pills each day.The miscarriage diagnosis was buried at the bottom of the box, the doctor’s cold han
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