Chapter 24 Recovery (cont'd)
The list keeps going on.
On day eight, Dr. Chen brings in a specialist. Dr. Yuki Tanaka, a supernatural obstetrician who's apparently one of the few in North America with experience in complicated shifter pregnancies.
She's younger than Dr. Chen, maybe mid-forties, with sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"Your daughter is remarkable," she says after completing her examination. "The rate of development, the strength of her vitals, the early manifestation of supernatural traits—I've only seen this kind of accelerated growth in one other case."
"What case?" I ask.
"An Alpha's daughter born to an omega mother in Japan fifteen years ago. The pregnancy was... tumultuous. The mother went into labor at six and a half months. The baby was born weighing nearly eight pounds, fully developed, and shifted for the first time at three days old."
My blood runs cold. "Three days old?"
"Most shifter children don't shift until puberty. Some not until their late teens. But this child was different. Special. The combination of Alpha genetics and omega resilience created something unprecedented." Dr. Tanaka meets my eyes. "Your daughter may follow a similar pattern."
"Is that dangerous? For her?"
"Potentially. Early shifting puts tremendous strain on developing bodies. But it's also a sign of incredible power. That child in Japan—she's now one of the strongest wolves in her pack despite her age."
I don't know whether to feel pride or terror. Maybe both.
"What happened to the mother?" I ask quietly.
Dr. Tanaka's expression softens. "She survived the birth. Raised her daughter with help from her pack. They're both thriving now."
"She had pack support." I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "I don't."
"No," Dr. Tanaka agrees. "Which makes your situation significantly more challenging. That's why I'm going to be very direct with you, Sage. You need to start preparing now for a premature delivery. At the rate your daughter is developing, you'll go into labor sometime around seven months. That gives you roughly twelve weeks to get your life in order."
Twelve weeks. Less than three months.
"I don't have anywhere to go," I admit. "No pack, no family, no home. Just... nothing."
"Then we need to change that." Dr. Tanaka pulls out a business card and hands it to me. "There's a supernatural community center in Vancouver. They help rogues and displaced wolves get back on their feet. Housing assistance, job placement, childcare resources. I volunteer there twice a month. Let me make some calls."
"I can't afford—"
"Their services are free. Funded by donations from established packs who believe in helping displaced wolves." She squeezes my hand. "You're not the first rogue to find herself pregnant and alone, Sage. And you won't be the last. Let people help you."
After she leaves, I stare at the business card. Vancouver Supernatural Community Center. An address in East Vancouver. A phone number.
Help. Real, tangible help.
But accepting it means admitting I can't do this alone. Means swallowing my pride and acknowledging how desperate my situation really is.
On day ten, I finally make the call.
A warm voice answers on the second ring. "VSCC, this is Amanda speaking."
"Hi, I... Dr. Tanaka told me to call. Said you might be able to help."
"Of course! Are you a client of Dr. Tanaka's?"
"Yes. I'm... I'm a rogue. Pregnant. I need housing and... and everything, really."
"Okay, sweetheart, we can definitely help with that. Can you come in for an intake appointment? We're located—"
"I'm still in the hospital. Vancouver General."
"Oh! No problem. I can come to you. How about tomorrow afternoon? Would two o'clock work?"
It's so easy. So simple. Just say yes and accept help.
"Two o'clock is fine," I manage. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you see what we can do for you."
Amanda shows up the next day exactly at two, carrying a tablet and a bag of what turns out to be homemade cookies.
"From our baker," she explains, setting them on my bedside table. "Supernatural metabolism burns through calories like crazy, especially during pregnancy. You need to eat."
She's right. I'm constantly hungry now, even with the hospital meals. The cookies disappear in minutes.
Amanda is efficient and kind, asking questions without judgment, taking notes, never making me feel like a charity case.
"We have a few housing options," she says after gathering all my information. "There's a women's shelter specifically for displaced shifters. Very safe, very supportive. Or we have a program that matches pregnant rogues with host families in the supernatural community. You'd have your own room, shared common spaces, and built-in support."
A host family. The idea is both appealing and terrifying.
"What if they don't like me? What if I'm a burden?"
"Our host families volunteer for this program specifically because they want to help. They're vetted thoroughly, and we do regular check-ins to make sure everyone's comfortable." Amanda smiles. "But if you'd prefer the shelter, that's completely valid too. This is about what makes you feel safest."
I think about it. A shelter means more independence but less personal support. A host family means less privacy but more help with the baby.
"The host family program," I decide. "I think... I think I need people right now. Even if they're strangers."
"Great choice. Let me see who we have available." Amanda scrolls through her tablet. "Okay, we have two families currently accepting placements. The Thompsons are a middle-aged couple whose own children are grown. They're both former rogues themselves, so they understand the experience. Very quiet household, lots of structure."
"And the other option?"
"The Garcias. Younger couple, early thirties. They're pack wolves from a small pack in Oregon, but they relocated to Vancouver for work. No children yet, but they're hoping to start a family soon. They specifically requested to host a pregnant rogue because they want to help someone in the situation they hope they'll be in someday."
Both sound good. Safe. But something about the Garcias resonates with me.
"Can I meet them? Before deciding?"
"Absolutely. I'll set up a meeting for later this week, after you're discharged. In the meantime, let's talk about other resources you might need."
We spend the next hour going over everything. Job training programs. Childcare options. Medical care for after the birth. Financial assistance. Support groups for rogue mothers.
It's overwhelming but in a good way. For the first time since my banishment, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I can actually do this.
On day thirteen, Dr. Chen clears me for discharge.
"Your wounds have healed well," he says during his final examination. "The infection is completely cleared. Your daughter is thriving. Medically, there's no reason to keep you here."
"So I can leave?"
"You can leave. But Sage, I want you to promise me something." He sits down, his expression serious. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself. Eat properly. Rest. Don't push yourself too hard. Your daughter needs you healthy."
"I promise."
"And promise me you'll come back for weekly check-ups. Given how fast your pregnancy is progressing, we need to monitor you closely."
"I will. I promise."
He nods, satisfied. "Good. Now, let's talk about your discharge plan."
The VSCC has arranged everything. Amanda will pick me up tomorrow morning and take me to a temporary apartment they keep for situations exactly like mine. I'll stay there for a few days while the placement with the Garcias is finalized.
It's more than I could have hoped for. More than I deserve.
That night, my last night in the hospital, I lie awake listening to the monitors beep. My daughter's heartbeat, strong and steady. My own heartbeat, gradually synchronizing with hers.
I think about everything that's happened in the past two weeks. The loss of my son. The miracle of my daughter's survival. The kindness of strangers. The support of Damon from afar.
I think about the choice ahead of me. I could give up. Could surrender to the grief and fear and let it consume me. Could bring my daughter into a world where her mother is broken and defeated.
Or I could choose to live. Really live. Not just survive but thrive. Build a life worth living. Become a mother my daughter can be proud of.
The choice is obvious.
I place my hand on my stomach, feeling the warmth beneath my palm. Feeling the slight movement of the life growing inside me.
"I choose you," I whisper into the darkness. "I choose life. I choose hope. And I choose to be strong enough for both of us."
My daughter responds with a flutter of movement. Agreement, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that I'm here, that she's not alone.
We're not alone.
Not anymore.