The world of Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. I like to play in it.

I was initially inspired to write this FanFiction by 184's Surviving Love. She has graciously allowed me to do another take on her idea. In this story, I wondered what would have happened if Bella was worried enough about Carlisle and Edward's attempt to save her by aborting the baby that she felt compelled to flee the household to save her unborn child. Who would have helped her? How about a homeless girl in Seattle and the youngest member of the wolf pack?

This story takes place during Breaking Dawn, and occurs after the honeymoon, as Edward and Bella return home early from Isle Esme after they learn she is pregnant.

Chapter 4 – No Luck with the Shelters

The next thing I know, it's morning. I wake up to Bree's concerned face and the smell of coffee and toast.

"Good Morning. I got you some toast from downstairs. Here's some water; you need to drink something," Bree says.

"We have to go, we have to go now!" I insist, trying to get out of bed. I'm too weak to get up and sink back. Bree sits me up and helps me eat.

After I eat, she helps me to the bathroom, giving me a few minutes of privacy. I think to myself how this is just like the Cullens giving me a human moment, except she's human too. She comes back in, wets a wash cloth, and begins to wash my face, arms, and legs with it. I'm fighting nausea, and that takes so much energy that I can't fight her as well.

"We have to leave. They're in Seattle. They're in Seattle!" I gasp out, nearly hysterical.

"How would they know? The car's registration hasn't been changed. They couldn't have used tracking dogs on us as we drove," she states gently but firmly.

I almost laugh at her comment about tracking dogs. Yes, they were using tracking dogs-immortal ones with inhuman strength and speed.

I lie back down and without realizing it, close my eyes and sleep.

When I wake up, the light has changed. "What time is it?" I ask, looking around groggily.

"Nearly 5:00," Bree answers.

"You mean I slept all day?" I exclaim, overcome with fear.

'"Yes, you clearly needed the sleep. I was about to wake you for dinner," Bree says gently. "What were you dreaming about? Is Edward your husband's name? You kept saying 'Edward, no'!"

"We must get moving, we can't stay here," I frantically insist, trying desperately to get up. But I'm too weak to fight her, and I fall back onto the bed in tears of both frustration and pain.

"I'll make some calls to shelters," Bree promises.

The next thing I know, it's morning again. The night had not been easy. Dreams of white-coated Carlisle and Edward removing first my baby and then my heart had been overwhelming, mixed in with dreams of trying to outrun an implacable Jasper.

Bree is sitting in a chair by the bed, with toast on the table. "Bree, have you eaten anything yourself?" I ask.

"Yep. I can take care of myself. I'm used to it," she mumbles. "Are you still insisting on checking out today?"

"Yes, the sooner the better," I reply.

"I have a list of women's shelters. We can take a taxi to visit them after you've eaten and gotten dressed," Bree sighs. This sounds promising, so I get out of bed, eat the toast and drink some juice, and then brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My face is sunken, there are huge shadows around my eyes, and my hair is limp and lifeless.

We gather our few belongings and go to the lobby. I sit in a chair and look at the tourist brochures kept in a display case by the front desk, while Bree completes the check out. She brings the car to the front door and helps me in to the passenger side.

We head for the first shelter. This is one Bree has stayed at in the past. The staff member on duty remembers Bree, and the two chat for a minute. She tells us the shelter is full, however, and recommends another shelter across town.

When we get to the second shelter, we go in and wait to meet with the intake worker. A Miss Taylor joins us in a few minutes. She has a warm smile though she looks weary. She looks me over carefully with an experienced eye. Thank heavens for my baggy sweatshirt, I think.

I tell her that I am leaving an abusive relationship but do not wish to involve the police. She nods and asks a series of questions, taking down the information on her form.

Then she sets down the clipboard, looks directly at me, and says, "You do not look well. Have you seen a doctor lately? What exactly is wrong?"

I decide to change my story a little. I overheard a conversation in the hall while we were waiting, and know that there is a doctor on the premises. She has stopped in to check on one of the patients, who apparently has suffered some burns. I can't afford to be examined by a doctor.

So I look around, feigning anxiety, and finally blurt out, "He threw me out because he couldn't stand my habit. I needed my fix! He has money he could have given me!"

Bree looks shocked, as she has no idea why I am doing this.

Miss Taylor nods sadly and says that while she sympathizes, this shelter does not take drug addicts. She advises that we will need to go to the Mission downtown. I start crying (which isn't an act), thank her, and we leave.

As soon as we are outside, Bree grabs me and asks, "Why? Why on earth would you say that? Is it true?"

I can only answer that I don't know why, that I just got a funny feeling.

Bree shakes her head and then tells me, "Well, there is one place I know about that stays kind of warm and mostly dry. I lived there on and off for months. You can get what you need without going outside if you play it right."

We get in the car, and she drives to…a hospital?

"No," I say nervously. "I can't go there…"

"Relax," replies Bree. "You're not going in as a patient. We're not going in the front door or even the back door. Come on!" and she helps me out of the car.

We park the car in the visitor garage, enter a loading dock, and go down to a sub-basement. After winding around a maze of tunnels with exposed steam pipes overhead, we reach a small room that was obviously a utility room at some point. Just walls and a door. There is an old metal bed inside, a roll-away bedside table, and a few empty water bottles.

"I left those bottles the last time I was here," Bree says. "They keep these halls warm so the pipes don't freeze. It isn't glamorous, but you can get linens and scrubs off of the carts in the halls, and sometimes even pinch a meal off of the patients' trays. If the food isn't there, they just send off for another tray from the kitchen. You don't have to worry; patients won't go hungry," she says, looking at my shocked expression.

"And there are no intake workers. So while I don't know what you're hiding, and I'm not really sure what we are hiding from anymore, we can stay here for a while," Bree continues.

And that's how we ended up spending a week in a hospital sub-basement.

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