Brigitte And The Baby Are Coming With

"Follow me," Brigitte said. She began walking quickly around the side of the building where her apartment -- our apartment -- is.

Was, I suppose. I had to listen to Doc. He was the only one willing to tell me what to do.

Or Brigitte, I suppose, because she grabbed my wrist and pulled me away. The revenants were stirring, a little, as we rounded the corner and began walking up the main street of the little town.

I wasn't even sure, that day, what the town was called. "Maples," I learned later. "Maples, Georgia." That's how short of a time I was there. Here's what we walked past as we left her -- our-- apartment behind:

On our left:

The small building that had a beauty salon in the base and our apartment above it.

A convenience store that, for a change, did not have a hydrogen fuel charger associated with it.

Two empty buildings.

A used-and-new furniture store.

On our right:
A bar.

Another bar.

A restaurant, the one where Brigitte worked and where I met her.

Another bar.

Then we were into the residential section -- the downtown was not very big. At all. The first houses, as usual, were sort of crappy, little houses that eventually, if the city grew, would become offices for dentists or chiropractors or laser eye surgery or body-part cloning and if it didn't grow then their occupants would die in them. We walked a few more blocks. Brigitte was starting to breath more regularly now but less heavy. I didn't breath heavily at all. While I don't have any special skills that I've ever noticed, I also don't really get winded. Sometimes I think that I breathe only for appearances' sake. I should try, sometime, to stop breathing.

Or not.

"Where are we going?" I asked her.

"My dad's house," she said.

"What's there?"

"Weapons. And transportation." She looked at me. "You'll take me with you, won't you?"

I hesitated.

She licked her lips. Slowly.

"Yes," I said.

"Good," she said. "I was hopin' you wouldn't leave me and our baby."

"Brigitte," I said, "We've got to talk about that. I don't know very much about me or things in general, but I do know this: two women can't make a baby."

"We did." She said it simply. She wasn't trying to convince me.

"And how can you know you're pregnant already? Even if it were possible, how could you possibly know?"

"I felt it kick today."

I suppose that I should not say things are possible or not possible. When you've only been alive for a week, you're not really in a position to judge possible or not possible.