In my previous life, when we moved to the underground parking garage, food and water were running low. I tried to limit myself to one meal a day, hoping they’d start treating me better.
But instead, my husband secretly signed me up for a supply run while I wasn’t looking. I was shaking with fear.
Meanwhile, his flirtatious coworker was happily eating our food. Why was it always me who had to go?
The woman clung to my husband’s arm with a sickly-sweet smile, her hand resting on her belly.
My mother-in-law’s voice cut through the air with icy disdain. “Hayley is pregnant with our grandchild. She can’t be put in harm’s way.”
She shoved my backpack into my hands and pushed me out the door.
I had hoped, despite everything, that my mother-in-law might have packed some actual food for me.
But when I opened the backpack, I found it was stuffed with sand instead of supplies.
As the sandstorm surged violently, I dropped the heavy bag and tried to run. But without any protection, I was quickly swallowed up by the towering storm.
