Chapter 7 - The Garden Shed
The man at the fence lit his cigarette, the gray smoke drifting lazily over the cedar planks. Clara knew she had less than five minutes before he completed his patrol loop around the eastern garage. If she was caught here—incapacitated, crawling in the dirt like an animal—she would simply be carried back inside to suffocate under the guise of medical distress.
She dug her toes into the compacted soil of the trench and pushed herself upward through the narrow opening. The sharp masonry edges tore into her hip and thigh, but she ignored the fire in her flesh. She tumbled out onto the warm flagstones behind the shed, landing on her side with a muffled gasp that she barely managed to swallow.
Every muscle in her lower torso contracted simultaneously in a massive, involuntary spasm. The baby was shifting, descending deeper into the birth canal. She could feel the crushing pressure against her spine. She pulled herself around the corner of the wooden shed, slipping through the door that the groundskeeper routinely left unlocked for chemical deliveries.
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Inside, the shed smelled intensely of motor oil, dry fertilizer, and gasoline. Along the wall hung garden shears, rakes, and coils of heavy copper wire. Clara crawled behind a commercial riding mower, wedging herself into the dark space between the tractor tires and the wooden studs of the rear wall.
Through the gaps in the shed's exterior boards, she watched the shadow of the security guard fall across the gravel path outside. He took three slow, deliberate strides toward the shed door, his hand coming to rest on the brass latch. Clara clutched the paring knife against her chest, her vision tunneling into pinpoint darkness as the wooden door slowly swung open.
