I pushed through the heavy wooden back door into the service passage.

The air outside was damp and forty degrees.

Wet brick walls ran down to the alley, where grease traps sat next to two green dumpsters.

Rebecca was standing five feet from the door, her upper back pressed against the cold red brick.

Her right hand rested protectively over her lower belly.

“You shouldn’t be back here, Raymond,” she said, her voice quiet and direct.

“Why are you working here?” I asked.