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For the first few moments of Angela's awareness, she knows nothing but the burning of her lungs and throat as she heaves up sick, her head throbbing in pain that worsens as whatever shade was over her jumps away and the piercing sunlight bears down on her eyelids mercilessly.
The taste in her mouth is putrid, and her stomach clenches in its attempts to keep itself full, and again, painfully so, as she gasps for air only to breathe in the unsuitable acidic fluid, and she only has a moment of panic, of I can't breath- before hands are grabbing her shoulders and rolling her onto her side, clapping on her back like a mother trying to burp a baby.
She tries to shove the hands away from her- don't touch me- she tries to say, but it dies in her throat as the hands are unrelenting, only letting up when she heaves in a chestful of air that isn't broken up by coughs.
She presses her face into her hands on the ground and closes her eyes, head pulsing in pain, ears still clogged and ringing too loud to hear whatever the owner of the helpful hands was trying to say. Her body is grimy and achy and slimy, her memory foggy; she can't remember much of anything after seeing her ex, Bryon, the previous night.
She jerks away from the hands as soon as she has the wherewithal to do so, scrambling around to face the man once she's made some distance. Vision blurry, she thinks the man is familiar but doesn't relax until she hears the soothing croons of her older brother's accent that colors his words.
"Solo concéntrate en respirar por mí, cariñita." Angela doesn't fight back the sob that escapes her as she throws herself at Tim. He catches her easily, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing her back, cooing at her in a way that reminded her of when she was younger, dealing with nightmares after their mother left and fears of waking up to find Tim had left too.
She clings harder to him; she hadn't remembered that he was getting let out of the cooler today. Her twin brother and her husband were both still locked up, but she wasn't alone anymore because Tim was here. Tim made everything better.
She buries her face into his chest and sobs, aware of her lack of panties and how her skirt and dirt stick to the viscous slime that is slowly dripping down the inside of her thighs. Tim cradles her head with one hand, pressing her close against his chest while he hums to try and soothe her. His other arm wraps around her torso, and he gently helps her to her feet.
Her thighs are shaking and sore, wobbly underneath her, but Tim keeps her upright as he brings her inside. The house is not like the one she grew up in, but it still feels overwhelmingly safe because she knows it is Tim's home.
"Angel, I'll be right back, mi vida, can you get cleaned off for me?" Tim kneels down and grabs her face to look at him after settling her on the toilet seat. He's got anger in his eyes; it's an odd comfort to know that her brother, normally so blank and emotionless, was furious for her. She nods in response, but as soon as he steps out of the bathroom, steps rushed, she just feels like bawling.
The bathroom light is too bright, and she finds herself on her knees over the toilet bowl as she throws up again, her stomach giving a mighty clench as she has nothing but bile to upheave. Her clothes smell like vomit and piss and alcohol and all she wants to do is burn them.
Tim returns with rags and a glass of water. She tries to help as he sits her back on the toilet but just ends up following his instructions to rinse out her mouth and down a couple aspirins and what few pills of Enovid she'd left in the cabinet before moving out.
She's grateful she doesn't have to ask for help, with Tim offering it before she could. She feels like when she was sick as a child as Tim helps her bathe, getting most of the grime off her and washing her hair before letting her sit and soak and recover in privacy.
She scrubs her skin until it's red and raw and scrubs further until it hurts, hating the way she can feel hands in place of the bruises on her hips and breasts. A gash cut into her palm protesting her every move.
When Tim comes back the water is cold; he wraps her in a towel and sits her on a stool in front of the mirror, a pair of scissors and medical supplies in hand.
She looks dreadful, with a ring of fingerprints staining her neck and dark circles under her eyes. Her hair is ragged and uneven, some patches hanging down below her ears while others are cut so short she could see her scalp poking through.
Her eyes sting, and she hates herself a bit for crying again as Tim tries to fix what he can, a look of concentration on his face.
Her headache has abated for the most part as she curls up in Tim's bed, eyes puffy, hand bandaged, and body raw. Tim's fingers running through her hair and the safety of being home lull her into sleep.
She's woken up a few hours later by rushed footsteps running up to the bedroom, the door flying open to let the hall light in the dark room and revealing Curly in the doorway.
"Angie!" A sense of relief floods her as her twin practically throws himself to the bedside to grab her hands, tone heavy with worry and anger.
"Curly," she tries to smile, the sides of her mouth upturning, but she can tell Curly isn't buying it. She is so glad to see him; he wasn't supposed to be let out of juvi for another month. It must have cost Tim a pretty penny to get him out on such short notice.
"Give me a name, Angie. I'll kill them. How dare they touch ya." Curly's hands are shaking; he likely hadn't even taken his methadone before coming to see her.
Tim appears in the doorway with a glass of water and pills for Curly. To confirm her suspicions, she can hear the low murmur of some of Tim's council in the next room.
"A name, please, Angie. A face, something." Curly presses his face into her bandaged hand, and for a moment all she can see is Bryon's dark eyes in the front seat of a car, holding out a bottle of gin, the press of metal scissors against her thigh, and the pressure of hands on her hips and-
Angela is brought back to the present by Curly shaking her a little bit, and before he can say whatever he was going to, the name is already slipping out: "Bryon." And she watches as Curly's and Tim's faces both harden with anger, still clinging to Curly's hand as Tim steps back into the hallway.
"We're gonna get him, me an Tim an the Grenwhich's." Angela can hear Tim talking to who must be the two brothers as Curly speaks. "An you're not gonna be alone. Sanchez is gonna stay here, in the living room, until we get back." Angela nods, hands shaking as Curly shoves his butterfly knife into them.
The next few weeks are spent recovering, avoiding the public until her hair was at least somewhat decent, and Tim sitting down to fix it as needed. What she hears from Terry Wood, her brothers didn't kill Bryon, but it was only just about. There had been a few hours when Wood thought he was going to have to get rid of a body.
It should have been better, but by the three-week mark she was nauseous and losing her appetite, running a fever that would go away randomly and crop back up.
She kept telling Tim it was just a cold, that it'd go away soon, that it'd get better, but she knew it was a lie. Judging by the note requesting her to pee in a cup that'd appeared in the bathroom, Tim knew it too; he was just letting her cling to the denial for as long as she could.
By the eighth week she knew she wouldn't need to take the test, having missed her period by over two weeks and barely having enough energy to drag herself out of bed. Tim had put the envelope with her test results on the bathroom counter.
She felt an overwhelming need to cry as she dragged herself back to her husband's house, the results tucked into her bag and an empty trunk to collect her things. There was no way she would go through this and deal with Franklin; she wouldn't survive it.
She does cry while reading it, her vision blurring as she holds the paper closer to her face. Then she rages for a bit, tossing trash onto the floor and kicking the can. She puts it off for a while longer to clean up the mess again.
Angela is sapped of all of her energy as she stares down at the little positive symbol, not even feeling like she can cry as she tosses it into the can and walks back into the bedroom, slumping on the bed and staring at the floor to collect her thoughts.
What was she going to do? She'd always wanted to be a mother, but she didn't think she could love this thing growing inside her. Not with how it came about. Not without its father in the picture. Tim would be there; he was always there when she needed him, but that didn't make it feel like she could do this.
"Tha hell is this?" Angela nearly jumps out of her skin at the rough voice of her husband, whipping around to stare at him with wide eyes. She hadn't heard him come home and hadn't remembered that he would be getting released today, or she would've stayed at Tim's.
Franklin's large frame fills the bathroom doorway. Angela notes how she wouldn't be able to slip past him fast enough to escape the bedroom if his notorious temper flared as she starts shaking her head. "Frankie- it's not what'chu think-" she snaps her mouth shut as the trash can flies across the room alongside his growled "Shut. Up."
Angela's hands shake as Franklin takes a few steps forward before turning on his heel and pacing the distance between the bathroom and her escape. He's lost weight during his time in McAllister, but he still had easily fifty pounds on her.
She drops her gaze to the floor, taking deep, steadying breaths as she waits for him to continue, knowing better than to try and reason with him. He hated when she got mouthy. He was already working himself up terrifyingly fast- and he hadn't even noticed how short her hair was. Not even down to her ears yet after it was so cruelly shaved. The positive pregnancy results from just an hour prior sit mockingly at her feet.
"Three months- I was in fer three months! After I agreed ta settle an marry yer ass, after ya lied and trapped me; ya gonna go behind my back an'-" Franklin's voice gets louder and louder, Angela's hands tremoring as tears burn behind her puffy eyes again when his voice suddenly cuts off, staring at her with the angriest expression she'd ever seen on his face.
"What tha hell is this? That other man like yer new look? Ya do all this fer him?" Angela swallows nervously, shifting her weight at the alarm bells that go off in her head as his voice falls flat.
"No- Frankie, not at all-" Her voice comes out weak, and she flinches as he punches the wall.
"Did I fuckin say ya could speak?" Franklin stalks forwards, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him when she shakes her head. "Don't even give me tha respect of lookin at me when I talk." He sneers; Angela's arm hairs are standing up, but she swallows back her response in hopes of him calming down enough to escape.
She doesn't get a moment to react after the back of his hand meets her face, her head whipping to the side, before he's grabbed her by her short hair and tugged. For a moment she thinks his eyes are golden, but she's fumbling for her jeans pocket where Curly's butterfly knife still sits. She hadn't worn anything but jeans the last eight weeks, the fact she wasn't in a short skirt with easy access probably contributing to Franklin's anger.
The knife is slapped away as his massive hand encloses her neck in a tight grip, shoving her up against the wall and pinning her wrist beside her. She blinks rapidly as she claws at the hand that's cutting off her air and at whatever parts of him she can reach, the scene flashing between the bedroom and the back seat of a car, her husband's brown eyes full of blind rage and golden cat-like ones filled with malice and glee.
She's failing to pry his fingers off her neck with black dots racing on the outside of her vision, convinced this was it; at least she would be free of the parasite inside her, bang the front door slams shut in the other room, and Franklin freezes.
"Frank! Angela! I bring groceries and a warning of the imminent arrival of Pops." Mike Chambers, Franklin's little brother, calls out from the kitchen.
A chance. Mike was a damn good kid, and not just because he warned Angela when her pervy father-in-law was going to force his way into the house.
"Angela's not here. Go find someone else ta bug. I ain't in tha mood." Franklin's gruff voice responds, and Angela panics, her free arm knocking against the wall frantically as black nearly overtakes her vision.
"What's that?" Mike calls, his voice closer to the bedroom. "Are ya sure Angela ain't here? Her car's outside..." Angela knocks harder against the wall when he says her name, and Franklin's grips tighten on both her neck and her pinned wrist, her bones creaking as the bedroom door opens and in steps Mike, who throws himself at Franklin, shouting and grabbing his arms without needing any explanation.
Angela drops heavily to the ground, mouth open as she gasps for breath, ears filled with cotton and throat throbbing, fingers and toes well beyond pins and needles. She crawls her way over to Curly's knife while the two brothers are shouting above her.
She claws her way up the mattress and to her feet, trembling arms holding out the blade towards her husband. All she can taste is her own blood, and her heartbeat thunders in her ears.
Mike shoves Franklin back towards the far wall a few steps. Angela can't hear what they're saying, but she bolts for the exit as soon as Mike is between it and his brother.
She slams her car door and hits the locks right as Franklin is stepping off the porch, Mike turning and running away as soon as Angela gets her car driving visible in the mirrors. She's still gasping for air, her throat swelling rapidly making it harder, as she slams on the brakes outside Tim's house, the tires screeching loud enough to bring him outside.
For the second time since she was a child she falls apart in her older brother's arms.
She can't even hear what he's saying over her own shaky breaths, he wraps one hand around the back of her head and she can feel when he turns his attention to whoever else was drawn out by the sound.
Then Tim's hands are pushing her behind him and her lungs are tightening as another car- Franklin's shitter- slams to a stop right behind hers and he's out, already shouting before the car door has shut.
"Don't listen ta that lyin bitch!" Franklin's voice cuts through her panic and she finds herself able to think, as if a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped on her head, sudden clarity striking her.
She doesn't hear her brothers response, barely registering that Bayard was moving closer to intervene if a fight breaks out. She knows Tim has a heater, that he brings it out when there's problems close to home. She can almost make out the shape of it in his jacket pocket.
"Yer gonna believe her? Lookit her! She's crazy!"
Everything moves in slow motion as she grabs for the gun, Tim turning towards her as soon as her hands touch his jacket though he doesn't realize what she's doing until too late. Franklin freezes in his path and raises his hands as she turns it on him.
There's fear in her husband's eyes and for a moment she revels in that, they'd only been married a year and he'd been locked up for a quarter of it, but just about every moment they'd been together it'd been her in his position.
Bang!
She falls to her knees just seconds after Franklin's body crumbles to the ground, and Tim is there, hands under her elbows to soften the fall. His lips are moving and he's pulling her to her feet but she can't hear anything over the ringing in her ears and the tears of relief dripping down her face blurs her vision.
Tim's sitting her down on the porch and when her ears clear there's sirens, red and blue flashing as a police cruiser pulls up, probably attracted by the gunshot. She doesn't even get a moment to panic before Tim is wrapping an arm around her shoulder and leaning in.
"Bayard shot yer husband. Its his gun, you came here running from him and Bayard being the good person he is jumped to defend his pregnant teenage neighbor." Angela takes a deep breath, steadying herself.
As on of the cops starts to come over towards the porch Angela feels a twinge of fear, Tim would get locked up again if they thought the gun was his. "Está bien mi bebé, estás a salvo ahora." Tim hums, watching the proceedings.
She grasps one of Tim's hands as the memory of golden eyes finally clicks into place. "It wasn't Bryon-" she gasps and Tim looks back at her. "It was Mark. I- he-" Tim shushes her with a nod, running his hands along her arms.
She'd never really had to deal with cops growing up, the risk of getting taken away from Tim more than enough of a deterant. Thankfully they don't seem to expect much from her and move on after she says the what Tim had told her to say.
Going to the hospital is always her least favorite experience, the nuns always defered to Tim for how she's feeling instead of talking to her. Quick to brush aside her input even if Tim snapped at them to listen.
When Tim is pulled away to sign whatever paperwork someone new steps into the room. A police officer she would know anywhere, with how long he'd been on both of her brother's tails. Frederick Valance. The co-chief of the station. He is looking at what must be her paperwork for a few minutes, Angela not bothering to try to talk to him with the state her throat was in. She was sure she looked like a mess.
"Angela Shepard. Can't say I've ever heard of you, what with how well I know your brothers now. Not surprised this is the situation I learn of your existence." Angela bristles at the accusatory tone and Valance grimaces. "Apologies, I didn't mean to say it like that. Just, seems fitting to find out you're pregnant and with a dead husband at seventeen. Would've doubted your relation to those two more if it was anything less dramatic."
"Sheriff, if ya'd be so kind ta deliver those ta Terry down at tha station I'd appreciate it." Tim's voice causes Valance's apologetic smile to drop into distaste.
Tim ignores Valance as he tries to talk to him in favor of helping Angela up from the bed, several other patients in the room snickering at the rude behavior. Angela didn't need help but she appreciated it anyway, especially when it got her away from the cop.
It's not until they're home again that Tim gives her the wonderful news.
"Mark Jennings is at the reformitory, Douglas turned him over fer dealing. He's causing such a ruckus they're fixin ta send him ta prison."
Angela is giddy, feeling high as an underlying layer of fear she hadn't realized she was feeling is washed away. She could go back out without being scared of him anymore. Well, after she healed.
Curly offers to get himself locked up again to go after him for her but she turns it down in favor of keeping her brothers close.
When she sees Bryon again a month later, the first time since that night. Working at a grocery store, a dead end job most East Side folk end up stuck at their whole lives. She wonder what it would've been like if it'd been him instead of Ponyboy or Franklin or Mark.
She calls him a huge piece of work for what he'd done to Mark, and wonders if he knew the true extent of what happened that night or if he had been just as drunk as her. Did he know how thankful she was to know Mark was gone and not coming back for a long time?
He says she's real pretty with short hair and a wave of revulsion runs up her arms at the reminder. One hand touching her stomach as she tries to play it off, fleeing from the store so to not think of that anymore.
She was just starting to show a bump, three months along and the idea of it looking anything like it's father is terrifying. She stays up late into the night with watery eyes, hesitant to touch it, what if it kicks? What if it looks just like him? What if she doesn't love it? What if it doesn't make it to term?
Tim and Curly both make an effort to be there for her, Tim trusting his gang to run hands off the wheel and Curly staying out of trouble for the most part; but she needs something to do to take her mind off the inevitable.
It's that thought that brings her to Charlie's bar, or, what'd become of it since he was found dead in the alley and the bank resold the place. The new owners kept the name, and it looked the same. But it felt different.
This was no longer the bar she met Bryon at, no longer risked finding the brothers shooting pool at odd hours of the day. The Charlie that didn't mind a teenage girl hanging around so long as no cops could see wasn't here anymore.
There's a help wanted sign in the window but she already knows she won't get the job before stepping in; it didn't matter if this place paid protection money to her brother or not, most bars on this side of town followed the rules of keeping women out.
The doors unlocked but the bar isn't open for the day yet as she steps in, an Irish man stands wiping the counter with a rag while cahtting with a man at the cash box. Whatever they're joking about cuts off as they glance over at her.
"Howdy, I'm Angela Shepard, saw the help wanted sign on tha window and thought I'd apply?" She keeps her voice even and friendly, radiating confidence as good as she ever did.
The Irish man has gone pale and is staring at her with wide eyes but the other man scoffs and waves towards the door.
"Sorry lass, I need licensed bartenders. Not little gals playing dress up." His eyes dip down to her jeans before darting back to the tin box as if to dismiss her.
"Hol' on Harry, ain't ya need a cook? I'm sure the wee lass can handle dat!" The Irish man calls out, Harry look over at him with a raised eyebrow.
There's a few minutes of tension as the two chatter back and forth before Harry throws his hands up in defeat. "I said I'd leave tha place in yer hands Charlie so it's up to ya, but don't go riskin shutting tha place down just cause ya pitied the first sad bird that came looking around."
Charlie introduces himself as "Cathal O'Connor but folk round here call me Charlie!" And he runs her through the ropes. Harry was his boss, he'd worked for him for about ten years and when this bar came up for grabs they'd gone in on it together.
Cathal seems kind, if a little flip floppy. Some moments he'd be interested in learning about her and other times he seemed to try and put a barrier between them.
It's good for a while. Cathal was her escort to be at the bar, so they worked the same shifts and he always tried to send her home with food or extra pay. She rarely ever ran into Harry, who ignored her existence the best he could.
Nearly a month after starting there is when Curly and his boys showed up.
"Angie!" She turns to look at the employee entrance to the kitchen and grins at Curly's mischivious smirk. He nods his head for her to come over and slips back out into the dining hall. Cathal so voice calling out "Get outta dere!" As the door shuts behind him.
Angela steps out of the door to see Cathal scowling at José and Spitz as they stand at the bar being menaces, Victor is standing by the door likely keeping an eye out for cops. There's very few custmers in the bar so early so Angela isn't too worried about losing her job as she seta the apron down next to Cathal. "So sorry boss, I'll take my break an deal with my idiots real quick."
Spinning on her heel she snaps at the two fools by the counter and points towards the front door while glaring at Curly's still smirking face, he's leaning against the wall like he owns the place with his thumbs tucked in his pockets.
One of the patrons wolf whistle at her as the three teenage boys leave but Cathal tells him to shut up before Curly can do anything more than shoot a glare at him.
"Whatcha want Curly? Ya can't show up ta my work an cause a ruckus!"
Curly drops his cocky act is the face of her annoyance, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck as he answers. "Figured ya would wanna be tha first ta know Jenning's is officially been shipped off."
The fact that Cathal is listening in on their conversation or that she was still carrying that parasite or that she'd only get another month of working to take her mind off it before she was showing too much didn't matter. She nearly collapses, Curly hooking an arm around her and letting her hug him, relief is the greatest thing in the world to her.
If Mark was getting sent to prison they wouldn't let him out when he aged out, he'd keep causing problems and getting time added. She was safe.
"Yer right, I did wanna know that." She breathes into her twins shoulder for a moment, steadying herself before stepping back and shoving him towards the door. "Now get outta here. Tim's probably got a whole list of work for ya."
Cathal cocks an eyebrow at her, not even pretending like he wasn't listening in.
Angela rests a hand on her stomach lightly and reaches to grab the apron again as she answers the unasked question. "Good news. Some guy I don't like ain't gettin outta prison for a good long time."
Cathal is staring at her stomach when she looks back at him. His face pale and frozen as he processes the new information. There's a few minutes where she's worried for her job but he seems to accept the new information well. Even if it means he nearly doubles her pay and the amount of food he sends home with her.
On her last day of working there she's six months along and no longer able to hide it from Harry when he stops in. She'd intended to work an extra few weeks but he came in towards the end of her shift and fired her right then and there.
Cathal tries to argue in her favor but Harry shuts him up talking about needing to lay off employees anyway due to Harry's gambling debt.
Angela has retrieved her belongings and steps out into the bar just in time for the bell above the door to ring out as Tim steps into the building.
Harry pales. "I, I don't have tha money for ya today. But I can have it by next week if ya just give me time!" And Angela almost laughs.
Tim stares at Harry for a moment before offering his arm for Angela, to help her down the step and out the door. Taking her stuff from her to put in the bed of his truck as she settles in the passenger seat. He's outright ignoring Harry and Cathal who followed them outside until he's done with her.
Tim crosses his arms as he stares at Cathal silently.
"Lassie's been safe da whole time, an she's welcome back wheneva." Cathal is awkward, almost pitifully so.
The last three months of her pregnancy are awful.
She's miserable and in pain, having a hard time moving around and being brought to tears at how none of her clothes were fitting anymore. She couldn't handle any of her favorite foods because the spices were too strong while she craved them to taste like more than cardboard.
Curly got frustrated with her mood swings and often left the house after they'd have a screaming match that Tim had to break up. Which left Angela feeling like shit and teary because they'd never fought that much before.
She was terrified it was going to keep getting worse and also that it was going to end with that thing in her arms with his eyes.
When the day finally came the nuns had locked Tim out of the room, strapping her down by her ankles and wrists, putting her into some kind of unconsiousness they called twilight sleep. Hallucinations of golden eyed cats haunting her as she couldn't move, could feel as they touched her and took something away from her. She blinked and it was all over.
She was in a hospital room alone, no memory of the entire event except for golden eyes and she was so convinced it had been born with them that she was screaming and hysterical until they shoved the little red blob of a baby into her arms, milky blue eyes and a thin scruff of dark hair on his head.
She couldn't look away from her baby as he nursed, gums gnawing on her skin. Her heart was beating loud in her chest and she forced a smile onto her face because he didn't have his eyes, that meant she could love him, right?
They keep her in and out of sedation for what feels like hours, only waking up to groggily hold her baby to feed him before he's ripped out of her hands again and she drops back into dreamless sleep.
It's not until she's finally let out into Tim's furious care that she learns it'd been three days. The nuns had been reluclant to let an unwed mother go, even if Tim was claiming responsability for them.
Tim puts her son into her arms showing her how to hold him and the drive home is the longest she'd gotten to hold her baby since he was born.
She didn't have a name for him and the nuns hadn't given her the option but when Tim tells her he named him Julian she almost cries from how perfect it felt.
For the first two months it feels unreal, almost too perfect.
She didn't feel love for Julian, sure, she had to force herself out of bed to feed him, sure, but she was sure she'd feel something for him soon.
He was a perfect little baby boy, he rarely ever cried and his chubby little fingers clung to her hands and he always gave this giant gummy smile when he heard her voice.
Julian already had Curly wrapped around his tiny fingers, her twin had melted the first time Tim had shown him how to hold him. His face openly awed as he stared down at the bundle like it was the most precious thing.
Angela had loved that, seeing both her brothers already adored Julian, atleast he would grow up cared for if not loved. She could do this.
She couldn't do it. It's not the only thought going through her head in the middle of the night, Julian's big golden eyes staring up at her from his basket.
He offered her a gummy smile and reached for her but a sense of hatred was building in her gut as she flinched away from him.
All she can see is how much it resembled him.
It's hair lightening more every day, now closer to fifty blonde then her black, the way his smile was slightly crooked with a ghost of a smirk, now his eyes. Wide and far too intelligent and gold and cat-like and- his.
It starts to cry when she takes too long to give it what it wanted and Angela takes several steps back, falling against the wall and to the floor and her brothers come into the room, woken by the screaming cries of the thing; a rare occurance in the last three months.
It's not until Curly's crouching in front of her that she realizes she's clutching the knife through her pocket, Tim taking it out of the basket and stepping out of the room to separate them.
Her hands are shaking as she follows Curly out of the house, a few days worth of clothing stashed in the trunk as Tim settles it into his room.
All she can see is those golden eyes, imprinted in her eyelids the whole drive across town towards Curly's safehouse.
She'd always wanted to be a mother.