Ann Miren

It's a dreary, rainy night and the bustling city is quiet in the business district due to the late hour, especially in this dark alley. There's an open umbrella at her fingertips, her arm extended as she lies chest down on the pavement. Only the faint light from the exit signs behind the building and their reflection in the puddles illuminate her face. Ann knew picking up an extra shift in the bakery when she had worked every day this week would be overdoing it, but she chose to help out anyway. *"You're overworked. I advise taking a break,"* the doctor's words echoed in her head every time she got a stabbing pain in her leg or her hand cramped up, frozen in a contorted posture. Claude was somewhere downing tequila shots for his friend's birthday party and there she had been, on hour 16 of standing up hand churning butter to the point where—when she finally got off and headed home—her legs gave out. And just her luck for it to happen in that back alley on a rainy day with the storm inching closer by the minute. She truly thought nobody would pass through that alley—that she'd be stranded there until her legs decided they’d rested enough, or maybe until the next morning. She imagined adrenaline pumping through her muscles only when some thug came into the alley, prompting her to run way. But then, you walk by.