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Friday: Kidnap your own children, and run for it, waiting for your husband's biker gang to hunt you down.
Saturday: Reconcile the fact that your husband is now not your husband, three years younger than he should be, and your four-year-old son is now a one-year old. And you're in an inescapable city.
Sunday: Look for a job.
Tara tipped her head back as she walked on the sidewalk. She had a map, she had the manilla folder that had not only contained money, an ID, a room key for her apparent apartment, and a lot of other things, it had twenty-seven sheets of paper, neatly stapled together. It was a transfer request, her certifications and scores, her records. It was the key to her practicing again, and there was no mention of her write-ups, her pending felony charge that made Oregon withdraw her offer. There were summaries of the papers she'd written, it was exactly what you would expect if you were trying to transfer hospitals.
All wrapped up neatly, and tied with a bow. She hadn't wanted to wait - when she found out how much daycare cost, how Jax only had weekends off - she knew she had to go now. Darrow was new to her, but she could manage. She'd done the 'start again in a new city' thing more than once, and she wasn't worried about finding where she was going.
It's possibly that she should have been more concerned; she ended up turned around, and when she looked back at the map, she squinted at the streetsigns, looking down again just as somebody bumped into her. "Sorry," she murmured, and then she turned, the words dying in her throat. "Actually, I'm a little lo..." Her eyes flew wide, and she stumbled back a step as she bumped into the car parked by the sidewalk, trying to both gasp for breath and scream at the same time.
There was a man - well, it was more of a man than it was anything else, mid 40s, a little pudgy around the middle. He was wearing jeans and a sweater, but he had no face. None. Not a scar, not a blemish, it was just blank.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, god." She scrambled for her phone, just as she realised she didn't know where she was, she didn't even know if 9-1-1 was a thing here, and she ended up taking a step forward. "Sir?" She raised her voice, not even knowing if he - or it, really - could hear her. "Sir, I'm- I'm a doctor, we've got to get you to the hospital." She reached out for it's arm, her hand shaking, even as her other hand groped in her purse for her gun, because she didn't know what, if anything, it could do to her.
Saturday: Reconcile the fact that your husband is now not your husband, three years younger than he should be, and your four-year-old son is now a one-year old. And you're in an inescapable city.
Sunday: Look for a job.
Tara tipped her head back as she walked on the sidewalk. She had a map, she had the manilla folder that had not only contained money, an ID, a room key for her apparent apartment, and a lot of other things, it had twenty-seven sheets of paper, neatly stapled together. It was a transfer request, her certifications and scores, her records. It was the key to her practicing again, and there was no mention of her write-ups, her pending felony charge that made Oregon withdraw her offer. There were summaries of the papers she'd written, it was exactly what you would expect if you were trying to transfer hospitals.
All wrapped up neatly, and tied with a bow. She hadn't wanted to wait - when she found out how much daycare cost, how Jax only had weekends off - she knew she had to go now. Darrow was new to her, but she could manage. She'd done the 'start again in a new city' thing more than once, and she wasn't worried about finding where she was going.
It's possibly that she should have been more concerned; she ended up turned around, and when she looked back at the map, she squinted at the streetsigns, looking down again just as somebody bumped into her. "Sorry," she murmured, and then she turned, the words dying in her throat. "Actually, I'm a little lo..." Her eyes flew wide, and she stumbled back a step as she bumped into the car parked by the sidewalk, trying to both gasp for breath and scream at the same time.
There was a man - well, it was more of a man than it was anything else, mid 40s, a little pudgy around the middle. He was wearing jeans and a sweater, but he had no face. None. Not a scar, not a blemish, it was just blank.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, god." She scrambled for her phone, just as she realised she didn't know where she was, she didn't even know if 9-1-1 was a thing here, and she ended up taking a step forward. "Sir?" She raised her voice, not even knowing if he - or it, really - could hear her. "Sir, I'm- I'm a doctor, we've got to get you to the hospital." She reached out for it's arm, her hand shaking, even as her other hand groped in her purse for her gun, because she didn't know what, if anything, it could do to her.
