I stepped through the revolving door into the cold downpour, and within seconds the wet soaked through my thin shoes.

The bus stop on the corner of Elm Street was fifty yards down the block, marked by a rusty metal pole and a dark glass shelter.

One of the glass panels was smashed, letting the cold wind blow rain right across the narrow wooden bench.

I sat on the dry end of the bench, both hands resting on my pregnant belly while cold rain dripped off the brim of my coat.

A small, firm kick pushed against my palm from inside, reminding me I wasn’t alone in the dark.