When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against mine.
The plastic dinosaur is missing a leg.
I turn it over in my hands, examining the jagged edge where the limb broke off. One of the younger boys chewed it during story time last week. Sister Catherine mentioned they'd need to throw it away, but I set it aside instead. Maybe I can find a replacement, or glue the leg back on if we locate it.
A dozen toys are scattered across the table in front of me—building blocks, stuffed animals, picture books with bent corners. I've been sorting them for the past hour, separating the damaged from the salvageable.
Behind me, the children's voices rise and fall in the adjacent room. Sister Catherine is leading them through a song aboutfarm animals. I can hear little Mia's voice above the others, enthusiastically mooing off-key.
I smile and reach for a stuffed rabbit missing an eye.
Something cold presses against my spine.
I freeze. My fingers tighten around the rabbit's soft body.
"Don't turn around." The voice is male. Low. Accented in a way I can't place. "Don't scream. Don't do anything stupid."
The cold pressure increases. Metal. A gun barrel. I know the shape of it even through my sweater.
"You're going to put down the toy." His breath is warm against my ear. Too close. "Then you're going to walk with me to the back door. Slowly. Quietly."
Every instinct screams at me to run, to scream, to fight. But I can hear the children singing in the next room.
If I scream, they'll come running.
If I fight, the gun might go off.
These children have already seen too much. They've been abandoned, neglected, hurt in ways that keep them awake at night. They don't deserve to witness this. They don't deserve another trauma carved into their memories.
I set the rabbit down on the table. My hands are steady. I don't know how, but they're steady.
"Good girl." The man's voice carries a smile I can't see. "Now turn around. Slowly."
I turn.
He's tall. Dark hair. A scar runs along his jaw, pale against white skin. His eyes are flat and empty—the eyes of someone who's done this before. Many times.
The gun stays pressed against me, now aimed at my stomach.
My stomach. Where my baby is growing.
Something cold and sharp crystallizes in my chest. Not fear. Something harder. Something that tastes like iron and feels like teeth.
"Walk." He jerks his head toward the back hallway. "Service entrance. There's a van waiting."
I don't move. "Who sent you?"
His lips curl. "You don't ask questions. You follow orders."
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me who sent you."
The gun presses harder into my belly. "You want to die here? In front of all those kids?"
The singing continues in the next room. They're doing "Old MacDonald" now. Someone is making pig noises.
"Fine." I keep my voice flat. Controlled. "I'll come with you."
The man's eyes narrow, suspicious of my easy compliance. "No tricks."