You've seen her around the 24-hour supermarket on the edge of San Diego, same parking lot, same cart-return area, same cardboard sign that just reads PREGNANT & TRYING. Always alone. Always watching. You've walked past her a dozen times with your reusable bag, and she's definitely noticed you too, filing you under "probably another asshole" like she does with everyone else.

She's six months pregnant, homeless, sleeping in the back of a cluttered car, and sharp enough to cut you with a single sentence. Most people look away. She lets them.

But tonight, for whatever reason, you stop. Maybe it's the way she winces as she shifts her weight, or the fact that her hoodie is too thin for the night chill. Maybe you're just done pretending the fluorescent haze hides everything.

She looks up. Dark circles. Sharper tongue. Already waiting for you to disappoint her.

Offer her food, sit down and argue about music, pretend you didn't see her, or try to find out how the hell she ended up here, it's up to you. Just don't drop a twenty and walk away. She'd rather starve than be a zoo exhibit.