Chapter Two:

September 22 1940

Just tell him, Alana Krelborn thought to herself.

Getting up from her chair she began to pace the room drumming her fingers on her abdomen. After several passes she felt tired again and sunk back into her chair.

Just tell him! She thought again.

It's not that she wanted him to know, she definitely didn't. The further this child was from him the better. Though she had quickly run out of options. She'd lost her job. Obviously a pregnant woman wasn't allowed to continue her night job dancing at "The Gutter". With no income it wouldn't be long before she was forced out of her apartment, and when that happened she had nowhere else to go. Her family was long gone.

It was this longing to keep her baby in a warm safe place that drove her desire to tell him. Erik had money. It was what first attracted her to him. It was something she'd never had. Maybe if he knew her situation he would feel pity and give her some, at least for a couple months. He owed her that much for getting her in this situation. She sighed knowing he would never see it that way. It was her fault. Everything was her fault.

He had a wife though, one Alana had never seen before but heard in stories from him in a mocking irritating voice. If all else fails she figured she could resort blackmail. She didn't know about the affair, though Alana wondered how. They weren't the best at hiding it, and the evidence was clear in her quickly growing figure.

Reluctantly she rose from her chair and started for the door, grabbing her jacket on the way. Autumn had come to Skid Row. Though the air was crisp and cool it never felt clean and there was a foul stench constantly lingering. There were no yellow or orange leaves to speak of, because there were no trees. Everything was brown, always brown, no matter what time of year it was. Alana tried to retrace her steps. It had been months since she'd been to his apartment and she considered the fact that he might not even still be there. The walk felt longer than it had before. Both the constant dread and the extra weight of carrying another person slowed her down.

She paused when she came upon his apartment building, slightly nicer than all the rest. She thought she saw him out front but it couldn't be. He was much too small. Alana stared at his miniature from afar, a boy somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12 with slick jet black hair and a dark brown leather aviator jacket. He was laying down on his stomach on the city sidewalk, propped up by his elbows. In both hands he held a magnifying glass. As Alana krept closer she saw what he was doing. A swarm of ants were racing around underneath as the hot sun burnt them alive. The child let out a wicked laugh that chilled her, even as small as he was. Her hand gravitated to her belly and she said a silent prayer. Dear God, please don't let this be my child's future.

She passed by him and ascended the short concrete steps up to the building. He paid her no mind in doing so and continued to laugh. She paused at the door realizing she had never been here in the daytime.

Do I just go up there and demand to see him? What if his wife is home? What do I do if she answers the door?

Her thoughts were halted by this very occurrence. In front of her the door swung open and a woman stepped out. She wasn't tall but neither was Alana. She was plump too. Her face look unnaturally pink under her blonde hair in faux curls. Seeing Alana she curved her brow.

"May I help you?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Alana tried to find her breath. "Erik… Erik Scrivello, is he home?"

The blonde woman pursed her lips. "Who is asking?"

She couldn't lie. She was very bad at it. But she also knew she couldn't not answer.

"I just… I need to see him."

The woman's eyes gravitated toward Alana's eight-month-pregnant belly.

"Couldn't keep your legs closed, could ya?"

"E… Excuse me?"

Her gaze moved back to her face, her confusion replaced by anger.

"I wasn't born yesterday kid. Jesus Christ, how old are you anyway? 16?"

Alana backed up slightly, down a stair. Now this woman was towering over her.

"I… I don't know what you are talking about."

"Orin! Come inside!" She screeched.

Behind her the child with the magnifying glass blew a raspberry, though didn't move from his spot.

"Look," she said raising her finger and ignoring her child's response, "I always suspected my husband's after work activities. You think you're the first?"

She didn't scream or shout or hit as Alana suspected she would, instead she was nearly laughing. She was mocking Alana, pathetic as she was in this situation. It was as easy as a limp mouse being served to a hungry cat.

"Probably not," she continued, "but you are the first to show up here like this. And this," she motioned to her middle, "This takes the cake."

Alana looked down at her feet, but found herself staring at her belly instead.

"I just… I need to talk to him."

"Fat chance. He's not even here. And neither should you be." Her expression and tone changed as she turned her gaze over Alana's shoulder and hollered, "Orin darling, now please!"

Alana turned around to face him and sighed heavily. It was a bad idea to come here. The child called Orin climbed off the sidewalk and slammed his foot down hard on the remaining ants, pivoting the toe of his boot just to be sure. He shook his head to the side pushing his hair out of his face and climbed the stairs. In doing so he knocked Alana hard on the shoulder and she let out a small whimper, to which he snickered before closing the door behind him. This exchange had a sense of familiarity to her. The woman grunted as she climbed the top step after him. Opening the door she paused and looked over her shoulder. Her laughter had stopped and now she was glaring and balling her hands into fists. Alana stepped down another step out of her swinging reach.

"Just get out of here bitch!" She hissed slamming the door behind her.

A moment passed before Alana moved. Slowly she made her way down the stairs. Both her hands reached for her belly. She held on tight as if it was her life line. Opening her mouth she let out a great cry. Not of pain, so to speak. But from hopelessness.

What do I do now?