A pregnant taxi driver offers an injured homeless man a free ride to the hospital on a rainy night. The next morning, she wakes up to a procession of SUVs outside her house. Men in suits knock on her door with a truth that changes her life forever.
After two years behind the wheel, Cleo had seen every type of passenger a taxi could carry: the crowds of partygoers staggering by at 3 a.m., the families racing to catch a flight, and the guilty-looking businessmen who smelled of cocktails and bad decisions. She had heard all sorts of stories, dried more than a few tears, and learned to read people before they even opened the door of her cab.
The headlights of the yellow cab cut through the November fog as Cleo guided her vehicle through the deserted downtown streets that night.
Her back ached, and the baby seemed determined to do gymnastics against her ribs. At eight months pregnant, her night shifts were getting harder and harder. But bills don’t pay themselves, do they?
“Just a few more hours, love,” she whispered, stroking her swollen belly. “Then we can go home to Chester.”
The baby kicked in response, which made her smile nonetheless. Chester, her orange tabby, was probably lying on her pillow at home, shedding orange fur everywhere. The cat was the closest thing Cleo had to a family these days.
The mention of home brought back unwanted memories. Five months ago, she’d walked up those same stairs to their apartment, her heart pounding with excitement.
She’d planned everything perfectly—the candlelit dinner, her husband Mark’s favorite lasagna, the little pair of baby shoes she’d wrapped in silver paper.
“We’re having a baby, honey!” ” she had said, sliding the package across the table.
Mark had stared at the shoes, his face turning white. Silence had settled in, until Cleo couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Say something.”
“I can’t do this, Cleo.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“Jessica is pregnant too. With my child. For three months.”
The candles had gone out as Cleo’s world had fallen apart. Jessica. His secretary. The woman he had sworn was “just a friend.”
“How long have you been cheating on me?”
“Does it matter?”
It didn’t matter, really. Within a week, Mark was gone. Within two, he had emptied their joint account. Now, at 32, Cleo was working double shifts, trying to save enough money for the baby.
“Your father may have forgotten us,” she whispered to her stomach, fighting back tears as she refocused on the moment, “but we’ll get through this. You’ll see.”
But that night, just three weeks from her due date, her ankles swollen and her maternity uniform straining against her belly, Cleo encountered something different.
It was 11:43 p.m. when she caught sight of him—a lone figure staggering along the side of the highway.
Through the haze of streetlights and the light rain, he emerged like a ghost from the shadows of 42nd Street. Even from a distance, something about him made her pulse quicken.
His clothes hung in dirty rags, and his black hair clung to his face in soggy strands. He held one arm to his chest, dragging his right leg as he staggered along the deserted sidewalk.
Cleo’s hand instinctively went to her round belly as she watched the man through the windshield. She should have been home an hour ago, curled up with Chester, who was still purring against her belly as if serenading the baby.
But something about the man’s distress, the way he swayed with every step as if he were struggling to stay upright, made her grip the steering wheel tighter instead of driving away.
In two years of driving at night, Cleo had learned to spot trouble. And everything about this scene screamed danger.
Through the fog, she made out other details. It was a young man, perhaps in his twenties, dressed in what had once been expensive clothes.
He held her right arm, and even in the dim light, she could see crimson stains on his sleeve. His face was a tangle of bruises, one eye completely closed.
A car appeared in her rearview mirror, driving fast. The man’s head whipped around, terror written all over his face. He tried to run but stumbled.
“Don’t do it, Cleo,” she whispered. “Not tonight. Not when you’re eight months pregnant.”
But she was already stopping.
Curling the window just a little, she called, “Are you okay? Need help?”
