"You're out," the parole officer said, and the gate slammed behind her. "Out?" Laura repeated, tasting the word and counting steps away from the metal teeth. The officer handed her a thin stack of papers and a folded bus pass. "ID, release form, one call on the list," he said. "Envelope has forty bucks. Call Cruz first. He asked me to make sure you remembered him." Laura slid the envelope into the pocket of her thin coat without meeting his eyes. "Thanks," she said. Her voice was flat. It did not sound like freedom. A van idled at the curb. Phones cracked and lights blinked. The city smelled of oil, salt, and someone burning cheap coffee somewhere nearby. Laura stood in the sun and tried to place the shape of a future that did not fit inside her hands. Her phone buzzed before she had a breath to take. "Ms. Moreno, this is Summit Hospital. Lab results for patient Laura Moreno are ready. Your urine test is positive." The voice on the line was mechanical and kindless. She stared at the screen until the digits blurred. The parole officer's face leaned in, a shadow at her side. "You're going to be okay?" he asked, too loud. He was waiting for gratitude, for tears, for a story he could file under 'rehab success'. "I'm pregnant," Laura said. The words were simple. The sunlight broke across her face like a spotlight and she did not move. "You want