After two years behind the wheel, Cleo had seen every kind of passenger a taxi could carry: the 3 a.m. party crowds stumbling over their feet, families racing to catch flights, and guilty-looking businessmen who reeked of cocktails and bad decisions. She’d heard every story, dried more than a few tears, and learned to read people before they even opened her cab door.

The yellow cab’s headlights cut through the November fog as Cleo guided her taxi down the empty streets of downtown that night.

Her back ached and the baby seemed determined to practice gymnastics against her ribs. At eight months pregnant, her night shift was getting harder. But bills don’t pay themselves, right?

“Just a few more hours, my love,” she whispered, rubbing her swollen belly. “Then we can go home to Chester.”

The baby kicked in response, making her smile despite everything. Chester, her orange tabby, was probably sprawled across her pillow at home, shedding orange fur everywhere. These days, that cat was the closest thing Cleo had as a family.

The mention of home brought unwanted memories flooding back. Five months ago, she’d bounded up those same stairs to their apartment, her heart racing with excitement.

She’d planned everything perfectly — the candle-lit dinner, her husband Mark’s favorite lasagna, the little pair of baby shoes she’d wrapped in silver paper.

“We’re having a baby, honey!” she’d said, sliding the package across the table.

Mark had stared at the shoes, his face draining of color. The silence stretched until Cleo couldn’t bear it.

“Say something.”

“I can’t do this, Cleo.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“Jessica’s pregnant too. With my child. Three months along.”

The candles had burned low as Cleo’s world collapsed. Jessica. His secretary. The woman he’d sworn was “just a friend.”

“How long were you cheating on me?”

“Does it matter?”

It hadn’t, really. Within a week, Mark was gone. Within two, he’d cleaned out their joint account. Now, at 32, Cleo worked double shifts, trying to save enough for when the baby arrived.

“Your father might have forgotten about us,” she whispered to her bump, forcing back tears as she snapped back to the moment, “but we’re gonna make it. You’ll see.”

But that night, just three weeks before her due date, with her ankles swollen and her maternity uniform straining against her belly, Cleo encountered something different.

The clock read 11:43 p.m. when she spotted him — a lone figure stumbling along the highway’s shoulder.

Through the haze of street lamps and drizzling rain, he emerged like a ghost from the shadows of 42nd Street. Even from a distance, something about him made her pulse quicken.

His clothes hung in dirty tatters and his dark hair plastered his face in wet ropes. He cradled one arm against his chest, dragging his right leg as he stumbled along the empty sidewalk.

Cleo’s hand instinctively moved to her rounded belly as she watched the man through the windshield. She should have been home an hour ago, curled up with Chester, who always purred against her stomach as if serenading the baby.

But something about this man’s desperation, the way he swayed with each step as if fighting to stay upright, made her grip her steering wheel tighter instead of driving away.

In her two years of driving nights, Cleo had learned to spot trouble. And everything about this scene screamed danger.

Through the fog, she made out more details. He was a young guy, maybe mid-20s, in what had once been expensive clothes.

He clutched his right arm, and even in the dim light, she could see dark crimson stains on his sleeve. His face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen shut.

A car appeared in her rearview mirror, moving fast. The man’s head snapped up, terror written across his face. He tried to run but stumbled.

“Don’t do it, Cleo,” she whispered. “Not tonight. Not when you’re eight months pregnant.”

But she was already pulling over.

Rolling down her window just a crack, she called out, “You okay? Need help?”

The stranger jerked around, his eyes wide with fear. Sweat fused in dark crimson trickled from a cut above his eyebrow. “I just need to get somewhere safe.”

The approaching car’s engine roared louder.

“Get in!” Cleo unlocked the doors. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

The guy climbed in and collapsed into the backseat as Cleo hit the gas. The pursuing car’s headlights flooded her mirror.

“They’re still coming,” he panted, ducking low. “Thank you. Most wouldn’t stop.”

Cleo’s heart hammered. “Hold on.”

She took a sharp right, then another, weaving through side streets she knew by heart. The car behind them kept pace.

“Who are they?” she asked, taking another sharp turn that made her passenger grab the door handle.