Elm Street was different from the rest of Maplewood.
Where our dirt roads cracked under carriage wheels and boots, Elm Street glistened with smooth stone pavements. Where clapboard houses leaned tired against the wind, here stood tall white-pillared porches and manicured lawns trimmed with the precision of wealth.
I didn't belong there.
Every step I took felt like a trespass, as though the air itself knew I was a farmer's son from the south edge of town.
Rebecca didn't know I had come. She thought I was at the workshop, patching tools for Mr. Harris. But my feet carried me here instead—to the Wilson house, the grandest on the street, with its windows glowing warm even in the afternoon sun.
I paused at the gate. For a long moment, I thought about turning back. My chest pounded so hard it hurt.
This is madness, I told myself. Just go home. Forget it. Pretend you never even thought of this.
But then I saw Rebecca's face in my mind—her tears, her fear, the way she whispered about running away to Chicago. And I saw her mother, bent over from work, coughing into her ragged apron.
I pushed the gate open.
The Wilsons' maid, a thin woman with sharp eyes, looked me up and down as I stood awkwardly at the door. "Yes?" she asked, suspicion dripping from her tone.
"I… I'd like to speak with Mr. Wilson," I said, clearing my throat. "It's a matter of… opportunity."
Her brows rose, but after a pause, she disappeared inside. Moments later, a tall man with silver cufflinks and a pressed waistcoat appeared, his presence filling the doorway. Mr. Wilson.
"Daniel Cole, isn't it?" His voice was smooth, polished like the marble floor behind him. "Your father worked my fields some years back."
"Yes, sir," I said quickly, feeling my throat dry.
He studied me for a moment, then leaned against the doorframe. "What brings you here?"
The words stuck in my throat. I couldn't say it outright—I want to sell you my unborn child. My tongue refused to form the sin so nakedly.
So I dressed it up. I wrapped it in shame and false honor.
"I've… heard," I began, my voice low, "that sometimes… families in town, families with means… might be willing to help young couples in trouble. Couples who—who cannot raise a child themselves."
Mr. Wilson's expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of understanding in his eyes. His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"And you're saying you and Miss Rebecca are… in such trouble?"
Heat flushed my face. I couldn't meet his gaze. "Yes, sir."
The silence that followed was unbearable. I thought he would slam the door in my face, call me wicked, drag me before Pastor Gregory. But instead, he spoke with a calm that chilled me more than anger ever could.
"You've come to the right place, Daniel."
The words sank into me like stones. Relief and dread tangled in my chest, fighting for space.
"Why don't you come inside," he said smoothly, stepping aside. "We can talk details."
I hesitated only a second. Then I crossed the threshold.
The door closed behind me with a heavy thud. And for the first time, I realized—I wasn't just knocking on sin's door. I had stepped fully inside.