Mist is going to have Midas’s baby. The man who just struck me, hurt me, left bruises over my body. Sympathy, like a heavy, wet raincloud, drizzles over my mood, saturating it in sorrow for the woman sitting across from me. It could’ve been me. I could’ve been the one carrying his child, and then what would I have done? I’d never have been able to get away from him.
