DAVE
The Black Dragon
The neutral territory Mom chose sits halfway between Howling Pines and Albuquerque—a truck stop called Mabel's that smells like diesel and forgotten dreams. I watch Kat pace our motel room at five AM, her anxiety making the boys restless enough that her entire belly shifts with their movement. She's changed outfits three times, each iteration an attempt to find armor in fabric. Finally, she settles on jeans and a leather jacket that accommodates her belly, the uniform of someone who refuses to be anything but herself.
"Stop looking at me like I'm going to break," she snaps, but there's no heat in it, just nervous energy seeking outlet.
"Not break, Suzy. Explode maybe." I catch her on the next pass, hands gentle on her shoulders. "She's just a woman."
"She's the
