AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here it is: chapter three of the world's slowest updating fanfic. I hope you like it; please review if you do so I don't feel like I'm screaming into the void. Thank you to everyone that has left such positive reviews. They really warm my heart, and I wish I knew how to reply. Alas, I'm a bit of an old person when it comes to this website. Please enjoy chapter three!

Lila leans against her husband's shoulder, cups of coffee scattered around them, both staring wide-eyed at the monitor. It's around two in the morning and neither of them has slept; Timothy has dark circles like bruises under his eyes, his hair a mess on his hand from running his fingers through it. Lila isn't in a much better shape, her eyes red and bloodshot from watching him.

The only sound in the room is the rhythmic tapping of Timothy's fingers as he types against the keyboard, their combined breaths, the beeping of the computers surrounding them.

"Did you find her?" Lila asks, her voice hushed so as not to wake up the kids, sound asleep in their room, blissfully unaware of the woes of their parents, trapped in Timothy's study.

"Almost," Timothy answers, his tone matching hers. They fall into a comfortable silence again, just the sounds of Timothy typing until the computer beeps and finally, finally, Timothy says, "found her."

He pulls up a feed from Earth, where he zooms in on a seventeen-year-old girl frantically packing a bag, tears staining her cheeks. There's a sharp inhale of breath from Lila as she steps closer. "Can you check her vitals?"

Timothy does, a screen of blinking vitals (her blood pressure, BPM, body weight) on the screen before them. Timothy clicks around a little and sits back. "Oh my god," he whispers to Lila. She leans in a little closer to look, but it's of no use. Timothy is in charge of technology, she's in charge of scheduling deliveries. "She touched the rock."

Lila feels all the blood rush from her body, and she feels distantly like she's going to pass out or vomit. "So what, then? She's pregnant?" When Timothy nods, Lila has to sit down. "What do we do?"

Timothy opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out. He drops his head to Lila's lap, his back hunched over, and groans. "Oh god," he says. "What have we done?"

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Sam wipes a tear from her eyes. She's been hiding out in her room all weekend, but she knows she can't stay here forever. She has a plan (a text from her Aunt on her phone that says 'see you soon!' and a plane ticket to Ohio on her dresser) and that's enough. She'll be fine if she focuses on the present, instead of thinking about Freddie and the rock and the pregnancy and everything else she's trying to avoid.

Sam puts the last of her things in her bag and plays with her phone. Her lock screen is a photo of her and Freddie at Christmas, the two of them in dumb hats Spencer made, obnoxious duck lips at the camera as Carly tried to take the picture while still holding her eggnog. ("I don't trust you enough to put it down," Carly said with a pointed glare at Sam, which, hey, fair enough.) For a second, Sam considers calling Freddie. He would know what to do. He would know what to say. Maybe they could work it out. Maybe she wouldn't have to leave. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But then Sam thinks about everything Freddie would be leaving behind for her. He has a future; she can't let him throw it away for her. She puts her phone in her bag and zips it closed.

Taking one last look at her room, Sam shuts the door behind her. Her mother, who stumbled in about an hour again, smelling like the bar and whatever guy she's engaged to this week, is half passed out on the couch clutching a bottle of whiskey to her chest like a lifeline.

"I'm leaving, mom," Sam calls to her mother.

The sound of static from the television is almost louder than her mother's reply. "Okay."

Sam huffs. She drops her bag on the floor and turns to face her mother. "Can you at least try to pretend you give a shit?" She asks. She waits for a reply to her mother. She wants anything: an apology, a fight, a sarcastic response. Instead, she gets nothing. Sam walks around the couch and finds her mother fast asleep.

Sam scoffs. "Typical," she mutters under her breath. She grabs her bag off the floor and slams the door shut behind herself.

Sam's aunt nearly tackles her as soon as she walks in the door. "Sammy!" Opal's in her early 40s, although you'd never guess it by looking at her. She's like a hippie plucked straight out of the eighties; long blonde hair streaked with pink falls over her shoulders and the bracelets on her wrist clink together as she pulls back from the hug. "I have so much planned for us!"

Sam gives her aunt a smile. She's appreciative, really, she is, but she hasn't slept since she touched the rock and the bags under her eyes speak for themselves. "I think I'd rather go to sleep right now, actually. I'm exhausted."

Opal's eyes trail down to Sam's stomach. "So it's true, then? You really are pregnant?"

Sam's smile falls. "It's true."

"Oh, Sammy." Opal puts a hand to Sam's head and lets her fingers card through her niece's hair. "I'll bring you to your bedroom. Come on."