I’d been worried about oversleeping and being late.

But I’d ended up waking sometime before five, and all I could do was lay in my bed and stare out the window close to my bed.

Every so often, my eyes would blur and sleep would almost come.

But something would startle me awake.

Once it was sirens.

Then there was a loud truck that kept backfiring as it drove down the road.

Sometimes it was just…me. Me and thoughts so loud, it was a wonder my neighbors couldn’t hear them.

Finally, a little after seven, I gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed. Taking a shower in the miserable bathroom wasn’t much different than trying to take a shower in a coffin—I felt trapped and confined, and kept slamming into the walls when I tried to turn.

“This is really going to be fun when I have a belly so big I can’t see my feet,” I muttered.

With that cheery thought in mind, I turned off the tepid spray and grabbed a towel—one of the gifts from Florence. Wrapping it around my head, I used another to wrap around my body and left the steamy enclosure of the bathroom behind for the cooler, but much larger room outside.

I’d rather be out here and chilly than in there and wondering if the walls were going to close in on me.

I’d never been claustrophobic before, but there was always a first time for everything.

Last night, I’d tried to fill up the emptiness and silence by selecting clothes for my first day.

As expected, there was a dress code, so from my limited selection, I chose a plain navy skirt and white shirt with a round collar. It was dull and mundane. “I wonder if this is where the stereotype about librarians being boring started,” I mused, fingering the collar as I stared at my reflection.

As I sat down to breakfast, I still had nearly an hour before work started, and it would take all of fifteen minutes to get there.

There was going to be an awful lot of emptiness in the days and months ahead.

The thought was almost enough to make me cry.

Because I refused to give into that, I rushed through breakfast, brushed my teeth and left early.

My landlord was on the porch getting her newspaper when I walked by.

“Where are you off to?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Work.” I gave her a smile I didn’t really feel, and gestured down the street. “I was offered a job at the library. I start today.”

She pressed her lips together and looked back at the open door behind her, before looking at me. “There was some trouble in Watts last night. It’s still going on today. You best be careful going in there and come straight back here when you’re done.”

Watts. I still couldn’t remember why that sounded familiar, but I’d figure it out sooner or later. “I’ll be careful, thank you.”

Nodding at her, I started down the sidewalk, eyes on the intersection ahead where I’d need to turn right.

At the next intersection, I paused, trying to remember if I went left here, or one more block. The streets were oddly quiet, with hardly any cars about considering it was the normal time when one would expect to see people going to work.

A raised voice caught my ears and I glanced down the street.

A pretty young black woman was leaning against a fence, cowering from two men who hovering over her, shouting.

“What were you doing there? Breaking in?” one of them demanded.

She had a bag at her feet. Rags and bottles spilled out of it. “I clean there! I work for the lady who lives here!”

“And where is she? You breaking in to steal from her?”

“No!”

One of the men grabbed her arm.

Furious, I strode forward. “Hey!” I shouted.

They didn’t even look at me. “Leave her alone!” I snapped, moving quicker and pushing my way to her side.

She gaped at me.

“You know this bitch?” one of them demanded. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and the stink of it threatened to turn my stomach.

Shaking my head, I said, “No, but it sounds like you don’t either. Why don’t you let her do her job?”

“Because she’s breaking into a house.” The other leered at me.

“With cleaning supplies? What was she going to do? Polish and dust?” I laughed mockingly. “Sounds like quite the threat to me.”

One of them grabbed my arm. I twisted away and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“What seems to be the problem here?”

Turning my head, I found myself staring a cop. The uniform was different, yes, but still, he was a cop. His cruiser was parked on the other side of the road. Blowing out a breath, I muttered, “Thank goodness.”

The young woman at my side, though, she sucked in a breath and it sounded like a sob. “Ma’am,” she whispered. “Maybe you should just go. I…I appreciate you trying to help, but I don’t want you to have trouble, too.”

“It’s okay,” I said. Patting her on the shoulder, I smiled at her. Everything was going to be okay. Then I looked at the officer. “These two men were hassling this woman. She works at this house, takes care of the cleaning. And they were accusing her of breaking in.”

The officer eyed me for a long moment, then shifting his gaze to the woman. “Who do you clean for, girl?”

“Helga Tidwell,” she said in a soft voice, staring down at her feet.

“And is she home so we can check your story?” the cop demanded.

“No, sir. She’s working.” A shudder escaped the girl.

“How were you going to get inside?”

“I’ve got a key. Miss Helga gave it to me when I started cleaning for her.”

“See?” I smiled at the cop.

He didn’t smile back. “She can’t prove anything more than she has a key she got from somewhere.”

“What the hell?” I demanded.

“You watch your language, young lady,” he warned, pointing a thick finger at me.

“The hell I will!”

Famous last words…

* * *

Her name was Sharon.

As we sat in the back of the police car on the way to the station, she kept whispering under her breath, “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

I looked over at her and shook my head. “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Then I shifted my gaze back to the front.

If looks could kill, the man driving would’ve suffered death from some sort of weird head implosion, because I’d been glaring at him for the past thirty minutes, ever since he’d grabbed me and Sharon, shoving us both toward the car.

We were now sitting in the back, handcuffed together, sweating and miserable.

“You two, be quiet back there,” Officer Friendly snapped.

Not that his name was Officer Friendly. I hadn’t been able to read his badge, and he’d refused to give me his name.

That had to be some sort of violation of civil rights.

But did the rights as I knew them even exist in this time?

When did the Miranda come into being?

I had no idea.

I should write a book—How to Prepare for Time-Travel, then research all the fucking rules and laws that people might need to know. For every time period, for every continent.

If I hadn’t been so pissed, I might have laughed at the insanity of it all.

The cop’s eyes bored into mine through the rear-vision mirror. I stared right back. I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some racist jerk. “We’re just talking.” I kept my voice level, none of the outrage I felt showing in my voice.

“Unless you’re begging me and the Almighty for forgiveness, you don’t need to be talking or anything else.”

“I’m almost positive I’ve got the right to speak if I choose, providing I’m not causing a disruption!” Now it was harder to hold my outrage in check. Outrage, humiliation, fear. The way he was looking at me, it was like I wasn’t even a person.

“You have whatever rights I decide you have when you’re in my squad car.”

“That’s bull—”

Sharon nudged my foot with hers and I lapsed into silence just as the cop slammed on the brakes and turned to glare at me. “What were you going to say, girl? I’ve had enough of that filthy mouth of yours.”

“Baloney,” I said, smiling sweetly. “But…very well. I’ll be quiet.”

Through narrowed eyes, he continued to watch me.

Seconds ticked by.

The hot air in the back was barely circulating and I was so miserable, I thought I might be sick.

Finally, he turned back around, swearing and talking under his breath.

He hit the gas, taking the next right with tires squealing, driving so fast Sharon was thrown against me as I smacked my head on the window. I bit my tongue to keep from making a noise.

Sharon didn’t make one either, and as she straightened, she gave me a long, sad look.

I’m sorry, she mouthed again.

I wished she’d stop.

It wasn’t her fault.

With my uncuffed hand, I reached over and patted hers, then twined our fingers together.

She was terrified, and as the drive stretched on, winding through what felt like half the city, my outrage began to give way to fear as well.

Calm down, I told myself. My hands were sweaty, but it had nothing to do with the fact that the officer refused to put the back windows down. A cold chill raced down my spine, while perspiration broke out over my forehead.

Calm down. When we got to the police station I was going to get a hold of a lawyer—

It hit me.

Just how was I going to get a hold of a lawyer? And how was I going to be able to afford one? And assuming I could manage to get an attorney, what about the poor woman next to me? I’d tried to help, but I’d probably made things even worse.

There was only one option really.

I’d have to call Florence.

Tears stung my eyes and it was more than just my pride being stung because I’d have to rely on a friend—again.

It was because that friend was the only one I could rely on.

I couldn’t sit in jail, not when I was pregnant.

Jails were hard enough on women in my time—pregnant women had lost their babies because of neglect and who knows what. I’d read more than one news story about it. And that was fifty years from now.

I wasn’t going to risk my baby’s health when there were other options.

I’d call Florence.

Because I couldn’t exactly call the baby’s father, now could I?

A half desperate laugh rose inside me, but I choked it back. I couldn’t give into that fear now, even if things suddenly felt a lot more real to me.

My confidence from just a few minutes ago had already started to die a slow, miserable death. Now it was in its final throes as the police officer pulled his car in front of a squat building with a sign in the window that read Police Department.

Next to me, Sharon continued to shiver. I’d swallow my pride even more, and ask Florence if she could help this poor girl, too.

I’d help bring this on, after all.

As the cop got out, I turned to her. “What’s your name, Sharon? Your last name.”

“Cook,” she said softly. “I’m so so—”

“Stop apologizing.” The door next to me was jerked open and hard fingers dug into my upper arm, jerking me out. Sharon’s slim form was all but dragged along and the cuffs that bound us together bit into my wrist. I hissed in pain.

“Is there a problem, girl?” The officer leered at me.

He knew damn well what the problem was.

I lifted my chin and stared him down.

Arrogant prick.

“High and mighty bitch, aren’t you?” He rubbed at his chin. “Sometimes, I wonder where you people get it from.”

He tightened his grip on my arm and started to walk, pulling both of us along with him.

Over my shoulder, I looked back at Sharon, trying to convey a message. It’s going to be fine.

She smiled at me—a brave smile, I thought.

But she didn’t believe me.

I didn’t really believe myself, either.

I’d only read about the Civil Rights Movement, and learned about it through the lens of time.

Now, caught up in it, I knew I was in over my head.

But I didn’t regret trying to help her.

I wasn’t sorry.