Protocol 4
The air inside Elysium Organic Market in The Hamptons was not designed for comfort—it was designed for preservation. Kept at a clinically precise sixty-five degrees, cold enough to keep the artisanal kale crisp and the bio-dynamic wines stable, but for Sarah O’Connor, it felt like standing inside a refrigerator. Sarah shifted her weight from one swollen ankle to the other.
She was eight months pregnant, and her lower back throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache that synced with her heartbeat. She pulled the sleeves of her oversized grey hoodie down over her hands. It was a cashmere hoodie—her husband’s—but to the casual observer, it looked like something she might have slept in.
Coupled with her three-year-old black leggings and the messy bun held together by a fraying scrunchie, Sarah looked less like a resident of the most expensive zip code in America and more like someone who had taken a wrong turn off the highway. To the elite of Sagaponack, she was invisible. Or worse, she was an eyesore.
She stood in the “10 Items or Less” lane, holding the hand of her five-year-old son, Leo. Leo was the only thing about her that looked put-together—dressed in a crisp navy polo and khaki shorts, clutching a die-cast vintage Jaguar E-Type toy with the solemnity of a collector. “Mom,” Leo whispered, tugging her hand.
“Can we get the mangoes?”
Sarah looked at the display. Japanese Miyazaki Mangoes: $45.00 each. “Not today, bug,” she whispered back, rubbing her belly where his little sister was currently using her bladder as a trampoline.
“Just the pickles and the ice cream. The baby demands salt and sugar, and she’s the boss right now.”
The store hummed with the quiet, expensive sound of commerce. No loud announcements over the intercom, just soft string quartet playing Vivaldi.
The other shoppers moved like sharks in linen and silk—women with skin tightened by the best surgeons in Zurich, men with watches that cost more than most people’s college tuition. Sarah just wanted to get her pickles and go home. She wanted to curl up on her sofa and wait for Alexander to return from his business trip.
But peace, in the Hamptons, is a commodity you have to fight for. CRASH. The impact was sudden and sharp.
Metal slammed into Sarah’s heels, scraping the sensitive skin just above her sneakers. “Ow!” Sarah gasped, stumbling forward. She grabbed the checkout counter to keep from falling, her other hand instinctively flying to her stomach to protect the baby.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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