Instead, I said, “Tell me about Dad’s work. What kind of allies?”
The deflection worked, as I knew it would. My mother launched into careful details about the outback’s informal power structures, how my father’s negotiation skills had found new purpose among territorial disputes. Her voice carried pride beneath the weariness, evidence that Magnus Thornback refused to be broken by exile. I closed my eyes and let her words wash over me, pretending for precious minutes that we were sharing Saturday morning coffee instead of encrypted secrets across impossible distances.
The conversation danced around dangers, speaking in code about things that mattered. But beneath the careful phrases, something else pressed against my ribs, demanding release. The secret I’d carried alone for days now felt too heavy for one person. My mother’s voice, even distorted by encryption, offered the first safe harbor I’d found since those three tests confirmed my worst fears.
“Mom,” I started, then stopped. The coffee shop suddenly felt too exposed, too public for this confession. But when wouldI have another chance? These calls were rare lifelines, not guaranteed to connect again for weeks.
“What is it, sweetheart? You can tell me anything.” The gentle prompt nearly undid me.
I pressed my free hand against my stomach, that unconscious gesture I’d developed in the past week. “I’m pregnant.”
The words fell between us like stones in still water. I heard her sharp intake of breath, then silence that stretched across miles and encryption. Around me, the cafe continued its Saturday morning symphony, oblivious to my world tilting off its axis.
“How far along?” When she finally spoke, her voice carried no judgment, only careful assessment.
“Fifteen weeks.” I didn’t need to say whose. We both knew there’d been only one possibility, only one night as far as she knew that could have led to this.
“Oh, my sweet girl.” The words came wrapped in tears she was trying to hide. “Are you... have you been to anyone? Seen a healer?”
“I can’t. Medical records would…”
“I know.” She cut me off gently. “The pack databases would flag it immediately. But baby, you need care. Especially if...” She trailed off, but I understood. Especially if it’s his. Especially if the bloodline runs true. Especially if my omega body was doing what omega bodies did with alpha offspring.
“I’ve been taking vitamins,” I offered weakly. “Eating when I can.”
“That’s not enough and you know it.” The maternal steel entered her voice, cutting through encryption static. “Listen carefully. I know someone who might help. Discrete. Off the pack grid.”
Relief flooded through me so fast I felt dizzy. “Mom, I’m scared.” The admission came out barely above a whisper.
“I know, baby. I know.” No platitudes about everything being okay. We both knew better. “Her name is Meredith. She’s in Branson, two hours from you. She is a rogue omega who left the medical system years ago. She would rather stop practicing than report confidential matters.”
My mother had always maintained connections others overlooked. Omega networks that existed beneath official notice, webs of mutual aid and shared secrets. Even in exile, she’d found threads to pull.
“She helped a friend with a similar... situation.” The pause loaded with meaning. Similar could mean many things. Unwanted pregnancy. Hidden pregnancy. Pregnancy that threatened political structures.
“Will she...” I couldn’t finish the question. Would she help me end it? Would she help me hide it? Would she judge me for carrying the child of the man who banished me?
“She’ll help with whatever you decide. That’s what she does. No judgment, no reports, just medical care for omegas who can’t access the system.”
The address came in fragments, woven between discussions of weather patterns and recipe modifications. 4782 Willow Street, behind the blue house with wind chimes. Knock three times, wait, knock twice more. Cash only, no insurance, no records. I memorized each detail, knowing I’d never write them down.
“Meredith will know what to do,” my mother had continued before we hung up. “She delivered babies for thirty years before the Medical Registration Act forced her underground. Whatever path you choose, she’ll keep you safe.”
“What if there’s no safe path?”
“Then you make the best choice from bad options. That’s what we do now. All of us.”
The pragmatism hurt more than sympathy would have. But she was right. Safety had become relative, choices limited to degrees of danger rather than actual options. I touched my stomach again, thinking of the ultrasound I’d never had, the heartbeats I’d never heard. Ignorance felt safer than knowledge, but my body was already telling truths I couldn’t unhear.
“Thank you,” I managed.
***
The healer’s office occupied a converted garage behind a modest house in Branson’s omega district. The January wind cut through my thin coat as I followed the gravel path around the side of the blue house, counting wind chimes like rosary beads. Seven sets hung from the eaves, their metallic songs creating a cacophony that masked approaching footsteps. Smart for someone operating outside pack law.
I knocked three times, waited for five heartbeats, then knocked twice more. The code felt melodramatic until I remembered the consequences of discovery. Rogue healers faced imprisonment at best, execution if they’d aided the wrong person. The door opened before my knuckles could fall a third time.
Meredith answered the door herself, and I understood immediately why my mother trusted her. Steel-gray hair pulled back in a practical bun revealed a face carved by decades of difficult decisions. Sharp eyes assessed me in one sweep, cataloguing everything from my discount store clothes to the way I held my shoulders. The competent air of someone who’d seen too much to be surprised by anything wrapped around her like armor.
