Category:

2028

New York City, New York, United States of America

PROLOGUE

"GOOD MORNING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I'M SORRY FOR THE interruption, and I promise I won't take up too much of your time. As you can tell from my condition, I'm not here raising money for my basketball team."

Makeda scanned the train car for someone to make eye contact with. She grasped the pole with one hand and cradled her swollen belly with the other. The train's passengers—students rushing to class, exhausted construction workers on their way home, millennials heading to shiny start-ups—laughed at her joke. A year ago, she would have refused to play into a type—young, pregnant Black woman begging for money—but she no longer had the luxury of choice.

"Nor am I here with a sob story to guilt you into giving me a dollar. I am simply a woman down on her luck"—she gripped the pole harder—"who could use some help. Nothing more, nothing less. If you have money or food, I thank you in advance."

Releasing her hold on the pole, Makeda checked to see who, if anyone, was stirred by her honesty. As if on cue, one bearded Black man dug into the stained pocket of his work jeans and handed her a crumpled five. A young white woman unlatched her Louis Vuitton purse and held out some change. Makeda walked to her and let the woman empty the grimy coins into her hand.

"Thank you for the help," Makeda said.

The woman, oversize sunglasses and all, smiled and replied, "You're very welcome." Makeda knew that the woman had gotten the better end of the bargain—the feeling that you'd righted the entire world's wrongs for thirty-seven cents.

 

Five or six others made a contribution; among them was a pudgy olive-skinned boy with curly black hair who waved the crisp dollar his father had given him like a little flag. No matter the amount, Makeda thanked each and every one of them as she waddled down the aisle.

Their generosity didn't surprise her. She'd lived outside of acceptable, respectable society for over a decade. By now she knew that it wasn't an all-expenses-paid guilt trip that moved people, at least not them. No, these people of folded pizza slices, Fuck yous!, and brains hardwired with endless complaints—rising subway fares, the thick stench of piss and cigarettes, inhumane landlords—demanded bluntness and gorged themselves on cold, hard truth.

More strangers passed her money. Before shoving it into her bag, she quickly added it all up in her head—something he had said was a gift, but she never saw it as such; she had always been good with numbers, simple and true. $21.75. It wasn't a personal best, but enough to warrant a rest, especially in her condition, so she got off the train at Union Square.

Opting to take the stairs instead of the filthy elevator, Makeda paused every few steps, catching her breath. "You're a heavy one," she said, rubbing her stomach. Finally surfacing into the clear afternoon, she slapped the sculpture of Washington on horseback, as she always did, and sat on a wooden bench on the west side of the park—her favorite spot. Depending on where she focused her eyes, she could see Barnes & Noble, Whole Foods, and Mount Sinai. There's nothing like spring in New York. She closed her eyes, felt the sun's warmth on her cheeks, and inhaled deeply, hoping her baby, whom she'd taken to just calling "Baby," could smell what she smelled—that they could feel the sun just like she did. "Excuse me."

Makeda's eyes jolted open. The white woman above her, who was at least sixty, dragged her eyes all over Makeda before spreading a thickly lipsticked mouth into a tight smile, which displaced the wrinkles to the corners of her lips. The red lipstick, sinister smile, and crinkly white skin reminded her of a vampire. But didn't vampires only come out at night?

 

"Yes?" Makeda asked, wondering if the woman's starched black pants were as uncomfortable as they looked.

"May I sit?"

Moving Makeda's large shopping bag to the side, the woman sat down before she could answer. She stared at Makeda's bulging stomach for seconds that felt like hours, then reached out and placed her cold hand on it.

"Please don't do that." Makeda angled her body away from the woman. White women were always fucking touching her—her stomach, her hair, her arms, her thighs—all without her consent. Long ago, she'd decided to not get mad about it. But they never learned. Instead of considering her anger, their instant frowns suggested that she'd deprived them of some God-given right. And who was she to tell them what they could and couldn't do?