Chapter 25 First Steps
The next morning, I'm dressed and packed by the time Amanda arrives. My belongings fit into my single backpack—everything I own in the world condensed into thirty pounds of fabric and memories.
Dr. Chen comes to say goodbye, pressing a card into my hand.
"My personal cell number," he explains. "Call anytime, day or night, if you have concerns. And I'll see you next week for your check-up."
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. "For everything. For saving us."
"You saved yourselves, Sage. I just helped a little." He smiles. "Now go build that life. You've earned it."
Amanda's car is warm and comfortable. She chatters about Vancouver as we drive—the neighborhoods, the best places to eat, where to find affordable baby supplies.
The temporary apartment is small but clean. A studio in East Vancouver with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a Murphy bed that folds out from the wall. The windows overlook a busy street, and I can hear the constant hum of traffic.
It's not much. But it's mine. My first home as a rogue. My first step toward independence.
"The fridge is stocked with basics," Amanda says, showing me around. "There's a grocery store two blocks away. Bus stop right outside. And here—" she hands me a prepaid phone, "—this has my number programmed in, plus the VSCC main line, and emergency services. Call if you need anything."
After she leaves, I stand in the middle of my tiny apartment and just breathe.
This is real. This is happening. I'm really doing this.
I unpack my meager belongings, hang up my clothes, arrange my toiletries in the bathroom. Make the space feel like mine, even temporarily.
Then I sit on the bed and pull out my phone, logging into the email account.
There's a new message from Damon.
Sage,
I hope discharge went well. I hope you're somewhere safe.
Things are tense here. Stella's pregnancy is progressing normally—she's due in about seven months. Mason is obsessed with making everything perfect for her. New nursery, new wing added to the pack house, the works.
Meanwhile, I'm still investigating what really happened that night. I found something interesting: the pack doctor's notes indicate Stella had fresh claw marks on her arms that were self-inflicted. As in, she scratched herself.
I don't know what to do with this information yet. Confronting Mason directly would be suicide. But I'm building a case. Collecting evidence. One day, the truth will come out.
How are you feeling? How's your daughter?
D
I stare at the message. Stella scratched herself? Created her own wounds to frame me?
The revelation should shock me, but it doesn't. It's exactly the kind of thing she'd do.
I type out a response.
Damon,
I'm out of the hospital. Somewhere safe for now. The VSCC is helping me get settled.
My daughter is thriving. Growing faster than normal. The doctors say I might deliver at seven months instead of nine. I'm terrified and amazed in equal measure.
Be careful with your investigation. Don't let Stella catch wind of what you're doing. She's dangerous, more than we realized.
And Damon? Thank you. For everything. For being the friend I needed when I had no one else.
S
I hit send and close the laptop.
Outside my window, Vancouver bustles with life. Cars honk. People shout. The city pulses with energy and possibility.
I place my hand on my stomach and make one final promise.
"We're going to make it," I whisper to my daughter. "We're going to build a life here. A good life. And no matter what comes, we'll face it together."
Her response is a strong, steady kick.
Yes. Together.
We're going to survive this.
The Garcias turn out to be everything Amanda promised and more.
I meet them three days after discharge, in a coffee shop near the VSCC. They arrive early, all nervous smiles and eager energy. Rafael is tall with warm brown eyes and an easy laugh. His wife Carmen is petite, with dark hair pulled into a practical ponytail and hands that move constantly as she talks.
"We're so glad to meet you," Carmen says, squeezing my hand. "Amanda told us a little about your situation. We want you to know—whatever you need, we're here."
"I don't want to be a burden," I say automatically.
Rafael shakes his head. "You're not a burden. You're giving us an opportunity to help someone who needs it. That's a gift."
They show me pictures of their home—a small two-bedroom house in East Vancouver with a yard and a spare room they've already converted into a guest space. It looks cozy. Safe.
"The room is yours for as long as you need it," Carmen explains. "We know pregnancy is expensive, so we won't charge rent. Just... be part of our household. Help out when you can. Be family."
Family. The word makes my throat tight.
"Why are you doing this?" I have to ask. "You don't know me. Don't know anything about me except that I'm a rogue."
They exchange a look, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"I was a rogue once," Rafael finally says. "For two years after my pack was destroyed in a territory dispute. Those were the hardest years of my life. I survived because strangers helped me when they didn't have to. This is me paying that kindness forward."
"And we're hoping to start our own family soon," Carmen adds. "This feels like... practice, maybe? Learning how to welcome someone into our home. How to support someone through pregnancy and early motherhood."
Their honesty is disarming. They're not pretending to be saints. They're just wolves trying to do something good.
"Okay," I say. "Okay, I'll stay with you. But I want to contribute. I'll get a job, help with expenses—"
"One step at a time," Rafael interrupts gently. "First, let's get you settled. Then we can talk about work."
I move in that weekend.
The Garcias' home is exactly as pictured—small but warm, filled with plants and photos and the smell of whatever Carmen is cooking. My room is painted a soft green, with a comfortable bed and a desk by the window.
"We thought you might want space to work or study," Carmen explains, showing me around. "And there's a closet here for your things, and—oh! We almost forgot."
She ducks out and returns with a large box.
"We know you probably don't have much for the baby yet," Rafael says. "So we picked up some basics. Nothing fancy, just... essentials."
Inside the box are onesies, blankets, diapers, bottles. Everything a newborn might need.
I burst into tears.
"Oh no, did we overstep?" Carmen looks panicked. "We can return it if—"
"No." I wipe my eyes, laughing through the tears. "No, it's perfect. It's just... no one's ever done something like this for me before."
They both relax, and Carmen pulls me into a hug.
"You're family now," she says firmly. "And family takes care of each other."
The first week with the Garcias is an adjustment. They work normal hours—Rafael as an accountant, Carmen as a teacher—which means I have the house to myself during the day.
The quiet is both blessing and curse. It gives me time to rest, to process everything that's happened. But it also gives me too much time to think. To remember. To grieve.
I think about my son constantly. Wonder what he would have looked like. Whether he would have had Mason's eyes or my smile. Whether he would have been gentle like Damon or fierce like his father.
I name him in my heart. Asher. It means "blessed" and "happy"—everything I wish he could have been.
At night, I write letters to him. Letters he'll never read, but that help me process the loss.
‘Dear Asher,
Today your sister kicked for the first time that I could really feel. Not just flutters, but actual kicks. She's strong, just like Dr. Chen said.
I wish you were here to kick me too. To fight for space in the womb. To be born together and grow up together.
I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. Sorry that my body failed you. But I promise I'll tell your sister about you. I'll make sure she knows she had a brother who loved her even before either of you were born.
Love always,
Mom.’
By week two, I'm getting restless. The Garcias are wonderful, but I can't just sit around their house indefinitely. I need purpose. Need to contribute.
I start checking job listings, but most places want references. Work history. Things I don't have.
Then I see it: "Help Wanted—Night Shift Server, Rosie's Diner. No Experience Necessary."
The diner is a twenty-minute bus ride from the Garcias' house. When I walk in for the interview, the smell of coffee and grease hits me immediately. It's a classic American diner—red vinyl booths, checkered floors, a jukebox in the corner that's probably older than I am.
A woman in her sixties with platinum blonde hair and too much mascara looks up from behind the counter.
"You here about the job?" she asks.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm Sage."
"I'm Rosie. You ever waitressed before?"
"No, but I'm a fast learner. And I'm reliable."
Rosie looks me over, her eyes lingering on my stomach—now showing noticeably at four months along.
"You pregnant?"
No point lying. "Yes, ma'am."
"How far along?"
"Four months."
"You planning to work right up until delivery?"
"As long as I can, yes."
Rosie studies me for a long moment, then shrugs. "Alright, you're hired. Night shift is eleven PM to seven AM, four nights a week. Minimum wage plus tips. You'll split tips with whoever's working kitchen, but honestly, night shift doesn't get many customers. It's mostly coffee and pie for truckers and insomniacs."
"That's perfect. When do I start?"
"How about tonight? See if you can handle it."
The first night is brutal.
My feet ache within two hours. The smell of frying bacon makes me nauseous. I spill coffee on myself twice and drop a plate that shatters spectacularly across the floor.
But I make it through. Eight hours on my feet, serving bad coffee and mediocre food to people who barely look at me.
When my shift ends at seven AM, Rosie hands me forty-two dollars in tips.
"Not bad for a first night," she says. "You did okay, kid. See you tomorrow."
I clutch the money like it's gold. Forty-two dollars. Earned. Mine.
It's not much, but it's a start.
I fall into a routine quickly. Sleep from eight AM to four PM. Eat dinner with the Garcias. Take the bus to Rosie's at ten-thirty. Work until seven. Repeat.
The work is mindless but honest. I learn the regulars' names and drink orders. Learn which truckers tip well and which ones leave pennies. Learn how to deflect inappropriate comments without causing a scene.
Carmen worries I'm pushing myself too hard.
"You need rest," she says one evening, watching me get ready for work. "The pregnancy, the night shifts—it's a lot."
"I need the money more," I counter. "I can't live off your generosity forever."
"You're not—"
"I am. And I'm grateful. But I need to be able to support myself. Support my daughter."
Rafael appears in the doorway. "At least let us drive you to work. The bus that late isn't safe."
It becomes our compromise. They drop me off at Rosie's and pick me up in the morning, refusing to let me ride the bus alone at night.
Small kindnesses that mean everything.
By week four, I've saved almost seven hundred dollars. Not much, but it's something. A cushion. Security.
I buy a notebook and start making lists. Things I'll need for the baby. Costs I'll have to cover. Plans for after the birth.
Dr. Tanaka's warning echoes constantly: I'll likely deliver at seven months. Which gives me less than two months to prepare.
Two months to save money, buy supplies, figure out childcare so I can keep working.
Two months to become someone capable of raising a child alone.
The pressure is immense.