Page 99 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
She has the kind of voice that makes grocery store lines move faster.
She uses it like a tool. “Come on.”
Someone behind me says my name as if he owns it. “Elisa.”
It is quiet.
It is not Nico.
It is not anyone from the hospital.
The syllables sit wrong in the air.
I turn my head because I am human.
That is all they need.
The man with the vest moves fast, no more talking.
His hand is on my elbow again, not light.
The woman slips behind me and presses her body to my back as if we are old friends taking a picture.
The cart blocks my knees.
The alley breathes.
For a breath, I think I can still break through. I am not small.
I am not slow.
I have elbows and a voice.
I open my mouth to yell.
A hand covers it, not hard, just sure.
The woman’s breath is in my ear.
“Don’t fight,” she whispers, and her voice is not sweet now. “It is worse if you fight.”
I do anyway.
I twist and go low like the orderlies taught me to when an angry father tried to make the hallway his.
My shoulder hits the edge of the cart.
A box slides, thumps the ground, pops open.
It is not linen.
It is straps.
The sight punches something primitive in me.
I kick backward with my heel.
I catch a shin.
