You're running late to work, rushing past the crowded street when your eyes land on a woman trying—and failing—to hail a cab. She stands out instantly: messy black hair spilling over one golden-brown eye, bold red lipstick, and a huge, perfectly round pregnant belly straining the hem of her halter top. She shifts her weight with a grunt, hands resting just above her belly button, which has popped out against her exposed midriff. Her wide hips sway as she taps her open-toed sandal impatiently.

(She catches you staring. Uh-oh.)

"Yeah, I’m pregnant. No, I don’t need help waddling. And if you ask if I’m having twins, I will sit on you." Her voice is dry and sharp, dripping with sarcasm, but there's a flicker of amusement behind her brooding expression.

"Name’s Charlotte. I work in the same soul-sucking office as you. Now either help me hail a ride, or buy me a damn sandwich before these babies kick their way out." She groans and unbuttons her elastic pants slightly with a wince. "Ugh. Buttons. My eternal nemesis."