When Emmie was a little girl, her mother and father had a habit of fighting late into the night. It happened several times a week – enough so that she and her sister, Jennine, got used to stuffing their ears with cotton balls and hunkering together under a mound of blankets, playing CDs on Jennine's Walkman to drown it all out.

Emmie's father was an irrational man, quick to anger and slow to forgive. It had been pride rather than love that had kept her mother with him for so many years, pride that made Dora Larson stay with someone who made her miserable. Emmie remembered well that even after a sleepless night of fighting and tears and anger, she would put on her make-up, do her hair, and drive her daughters to school, smiling at the other mothers in the drop-off line. If she could make it look like nothing was wrong with her life, then she measured the day a success.

"Keeping up appearances," Emmie had once heard her mother call it over the phone to one of the few friends who knew how bad the fighting really was. She excelled at maintaining this outward show of familial perfection. The world could be burning to the ground around them and her mother would still have a tray of perfectly decorated cupcakes to pass out to the burning masses and a glowing but unrealistic report of how her family managed to avoid the flames.

Emmie sympathized with her mother's plight today like never before. Trisha would have given her the day off, had she asked for it, but she didn't want a day off. She wanted to get up at the time she usually got up, have her usual eight ounces of caffeinated coffee the doctor said she could safely drink, go to her usual place of employment, and smile at the customers as she went about the job she was now so familiar with. She wanted to maintain the appearance of normality.

Never mind the fact that this course of action hadn't worked all that well for Dora Larson. Her mother eventually had enough, leaving Emmie's father when Emmie was eleven-- screw what other people thought about their family dysfunction, now made public. But Emmie was currently the cupcake baking version of Dora. She was waving and smiling to everyone around her and that's just the way it had to be. Perhaps if she kept everything normal on the outside, it would start to filter inside. Perhaps by midday, she would no longer feel the need to jump at every tiny noise.

Unfortunately, even outside appearances were not as they usually were today. Trisha and Iola were both concerned for her, not surprisingly, and expressed it often. And in a small town like Moon Beach, news of Emmie's starring role in a tabloid featuring their most famous inhabitant traveled fast. Nearly every customer mentioned it. Most of them did so with kindness. Others were curious enough to ask for details, and one man even asked straight out if the baby was really Ryker's. Of course, everyone must be wondering that—it was understandable. But the lack of tact it would take to lead someone to ask her outright vexed her more than she should have let it.

She'd replied by saying it was the love child of one of the Avengers; she wouldn't know which one until she got the results back from the paternity test. To her chagrin, her customer took this joke as proof that it was Ryker's. Emmie had to walk away before she threw a pot of hot coffee in his face.

When Ryker showed up for his BLT lunch, he too received strange glances and pats on the shoulder. As he slid into his booth, he gave Emmie a conciliatory look. "This is turning into a fiasco. I'm sorry Emmie."

She poured his coffee without saying anything.

He cleared his throat. "As I was leaving to come here, Gene at work told me I'd better get used to changing diapers. No offense, but I'm kind of glad that's not going to happen."

"You're the second man in twenty minutes I've wanted to throw coffee at." She put the pot down before she used it as a weapon. "You know what? You suck! I don't think I can take your crap today."

She stomped back to the kitchen, waited for Delton to make his stupid sandwich, then marched it back to his booth, where she unceremoniously threw it on the table in front of him.

He looked between her and his basket lunch. "I don't even fully understand why this is all so traumatic for you, but... that doesn't matter. What can I do to make this better?"

Shaking her head, she willed herself not to cry. "Undo time. Change the past. Stop what happened from happening."

"And if I can't do that? Because... I'm a roboticist, not a time traveler."

She sighed and slumped into the seat across from him. "I don't know Ryker. And I know this isn't all your fault, it's just... because of the picture and what happened with it... I'm not sure if I can stay in Moon Beach."

He stiffened, hands frozen around the sandwich he'd just picked up. His left eye began to twitch. "What? Why?"

"I've given you so many clues, Ryker. I know she doesn't grasp the specifics, but I'm pretty sure Trisha has figured out what's going on, in a broad sense. Have you really not?"

"How can I know if you won't tell me."

She took a deep breath. "Maybe it's too late for that now."

"I don't understand why it would be, or why you want to leave Moon Beach."

"I don't want to, it's just... I can't go into it now." She looked around the restaurant uneasily and then slid out of the booth. "Unscheduled break's over. See you later, Ryker."

She kept herself busy the rest of the time he was there, which wasn't difficult considering she was getting slammed with lunch rush customers. Back and forth she went from the kitchen carrying people's food. On one of those return trips, she emerged out onto the restaurant's floor to find Ryker's booth empty. He'd left without saying goodbye, not that she could blame him.

Soon after, during her scheduled break, she received a text from Sam. His plane had just landed in Portland and he'd be in Moon Beach around six.

She texted him back. I'll be home. See you then.

The rest of her shift was spent serving shakes and deflecting Ryker-related questions. It was a relief to leave Iola's and walk back to her apartment where no one was waiting to ask how she'd managed to catch the biggest whale in Moon Beach.

#

Never one to run late, Sam showed up on her doorstep promptly at six o'clock. From the looks of him, the last day hadn't been any better for him than it had been for her.

"Is that... scruff I see on your face?" She'd never seen him anything but cleanly shaved.

He scratched at his chin but didn't say anything as he slumped onto one end of her sofa. She took a seat on the opposite side.

"First, Sam, I want to thank you for leaving Chicago early and coming all this way to make sure I'm safe. You've been my hero since day one and I don't say that lightly."

He bit his lip. "Emmie, I--"

"I know you want me to leave Moon Beach but your reasoning for this isn't totally sound. I mean, that picture is out there already. We can't take it back. And..." she motioned to her ever-expanding belly. "I'm pretty noticeable. Wherever you place me, it would only take one person to recognize me from whatever corners of the internet that image spreads to, and then they raise their phone, snap my picture, and suddenly I'm on Instagram. Then the Chamberlain Brothers know where I am again. No matter where I go, I'd be looking over my shoulder forever. If I'm going to live that way and it can't be in Chicago with my family, it might as well be here where at least I've built a sense of community."

Sam sighed. "I admit, the picture makes relocating you more difficult, but it's still our best move."

Emmie narrowed her eyes. "It isn't our move though, it's mine. And I don't want to do it. I'll face whatever's coming right here. The deposition is tomorrow. And you're here now. What's going to happen to me between now and then anyways?"

She patted his knee. Sam gripped her wrist as she pulled back. "Quite a lot could happen to you."

She froze under his touch. "But why would it? You're here."

He sighed again and tightened his hold on her. "Because I'm here, Aimee."

Aimee. That was a name she hadn't heard in a long time. It took her a second to remember it was her own. "You're making me nervous, Sam!" She yanked her arm away from him. "What's wrong with you?"

She gave him the once over and realized she should have looked beyond his five o'clock shadow. His shirt was wrinkled and partially untucked at the bottom. Red rimmed eyes gave him the look of a college frat boy late in the evening on St. Pattie's Day.

"Plenty is wrong with me, but it's what's wrong with you that's the problem. You need to stop being so obstinate. They know you're here. They know you're pregnant. They know it's Ian's baby and they've let Ian know about it too."

"What?" Shocked, she placed her hands over her belly as though that alone would protect the baby from the fallout of this revelation. "Ian knows?"

He leaned in towards her. "They will do anything to stop his testimony. They will... prey upon people's vulnerabilities, use them however they see fit. Drive people to despair and then make them do things they'd never think of doing."

Emmie shrunk back as he continued to lean in. "I get that they're bad, Sam. Very bad. But... what the hell are you talking about? Now you're really scaring me!"

Gripping the arm of the sofa, she began to stand, only to have him pull her back down.

Pinning her under him, he kept talking almost as though she wasn't there. "I've always been good at my job. I've never done anything unethical before, I swear. No one would have been able to make me do something like this. Even now, I..."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She tried to establish eye contact with Sam, but he avoided her gaze. "Sam, please let me go. Whatever is happening, we can fix it."

He shook his head. "The Chamberlain's operatives are everywhere. They have a well-organized and extensive network."

Emmie nodded. "I'm aware."

"What you might not be aware of is that through these extensive networks, they made it known months ago that information on the whereabouts of Aimee Larson would be handsomely rewarded. I ignored that fact, of course, I swear I did. There must be a mole in my department, though, because when the image of you and Ryker emerged, somehow the Brothers found out you were assigned to me and they began direct targets. I got a text message soon after we talked yesterday: they said they'd promise to fly Ashlyn to Germany for some new promising treatment. And then Ashlyn's mom called me, screaming."

He looked down at his hands where they grasped onto Emmie, his anguish clear in the deep contours of his frown. "They took her, Aimee. They took my baby and they're holding her and I either come here and do what they want and they save her life or I don't and they take it."

"Oh, my God."

He trembled as he held her. His pulse was so fast she could feel it throbbing where his thumbs pressed into her shoulders. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to hurt you. That's why I thought, maybe if you can just disappear again. Maybe if I tell them I killed you, but you're off living somewhere else..."

She breathed deeply. The need to convey a composed demeaner seemed like the best course of action. It was ironic considering the number of times when Sam had been the calm, rational one. Emmie couldn't imagine giving up this life. Trisha, Iola, all her goofy, loving friends... Ryker. But it was preferable to having Sam murder her. At least she'd be alive, and her baby too. "I'm so sorry they took Ashlyn. You know I'd do almost anything to see her live. But I have a child I need to protect as well. So... I'll leave. Now. I'll go wherever you need me to go. I'll cut my hair, dye it. I'll start wearing glasses, talk with a southern drawl. Whatever you need me to do."

He loosened his grip. "You said yourself, it would just take one person to recognize you; put your picture online. Then it gets back to the Brothers and they know I didn't kill you. Ian will testify and then what do you think they'll do to Ashlyn?"

"I won't get caught. Please, you have to rethink this, Sam. My death will weigh on you. You're too good of a man for it not. I know you are."

He let her go, stood back. Looked around uncertainly. "They have my daughter, Ai... Emmie."

She stood up. "Give me five minutes to pack a bag."

He nodded. "Hand over your phone, first. And your pepper spray."

She pointed to her purse and after he'd confirmed that both items were in there, she wandered into her bedroom, Sam trailing close behind, hovering in the doorway.

"I don't want it to be like this."

Emmie opened a drawer and began taking clothes out, unceremoniously tossing them into her suitcase – the same one she'd been issued when she moved to Moon Beach. She took out a peach camisole from the top drawer and paused, staring at the slender red box that had just been revealed: Ryker's necklace. She should leave it, but...

Carefully, so that Sam wouldn't see it, she took the necklace from its case and slipped it into her pocket. A few minutes later, she was ready to go.

No, that wasn't right. She would never be ready to leave. She hadn't been ready in Chicago and this time was no different. She'd been given no choice. Sam motioned for her to wheel her suitcase out of the apartment.

"Let's go."

Sam's car was parked right in front of Emmie's front door. For a fleeting moment, she hoped Melody might spy her through Moon Beach Cooperative's windows, but by the time that moment had passed, she'd already been ushered into the car, the door slammed shut after her. Sam got in, turned on the car and pulled away from the curb.

Within a minute, Emmie's sense of dread had doubled. Gooseflesh traveled up her arms "Aren't we going to Portland? We should have turned East back at Milford Avenue."

He refused to answer her.

"Sam, where are you taking me?"

A/N: What. Did. I. Just. Do????? 

What do you think of this Sam plot twist? I'd love to know if you saw it coming!

Votes for this chapter are extra especially important because they will be used to provide Emmie with a high tech brain transmitter. This device will allow her to send out an "SOS" message to her friends just by using her own thoughts. There's no time to waste! 

The chapter dedication goes, once again, to my pal, kristineinchausti who has recently written one of the most beautiful short pieces I've ever read. It's for Margaret Atwood's latest contest and it's called THE ROPE MAKER. 500 words that you must, MUST give a minute of your time to, especially if you've read THE HANDMAID'S TALE OR plan to watch the series.