Chapter Text
Enid counted the smudges on the glass door for the third time that night. Seventeen. One more than yesterday. A fresh, greasy thumbprint had appeared sometime during Daryl’s shift, right at eye level where it couldn’t be ignored. She should clean it, probably. The chemical pine spray sat under the counter, gathering dust alongside the other cleaning supplies that the manager swore would be used “any day now.”
She didn’t reach for it. What was the point? Tomorrow there’d be eighteen smudges, or twenty. The glass could never stay clean in a place like this.
The lights of the Marathon station buzzed and flickered overhead, bathing her in a sickly glow that made her look like a ghost. Not that it mattered. Because it was 3 AM on a Tuesday in late October, and there were four more hours until her shift ended. Four more hours until nothing mattered anymore.
Her only customer in the last hour had been a bleary-eyed trucker who’d filled his thermos with coffee and bought two packets of beef jerky without making eye contact. His semi still idled in the far corner of the lot, exhaust mixing with the rain.
The gas station existed in a strange limbo – not quite rural, not quite urban, suspended somewhere on the fringes where Chicago began dissolving into forgotten townships. It was the perfect place to disappear.
And Enid Sinclair had been disappearing for years.
The register beeped suddenly – low battery. She reached under the counter for the charging cable, her hand brushing against the backpack she’d stashed at the start of her shift. Through the canvas, she felt the rectangular outline of the envelope – unsealed, resealed, and unsealed again over countless drafts. Inside was a note that probably no one would read, alongside her ID and four thousand dollars in cash – enough for a proper burial if anyone bothered. The rest of her savings was divided into smaller envelopes with names she hadn’t spoken aloud in years.
Standing back up with the cable, she nearly knocked her phone off the counter. It sat face-down beside the register, all notifications turned off except for emergency calls - not that anyone would try to reach her tonight - or any night, really. The last message in her inbox was a two-week-old automated reminder about an overdue library book.
The clock on the register blinked on as she plugged it in. 3:14 AM.
“Break time,” she murmured to nobody.
Enid slipped her phone into the pocket of her faded blue uniform vest and pushed through the door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” The back room was small and cramped, with dusty shelves and overstock candy and motor oil - a tiny bathroom offered just enough privacy for her to splash cold water on her face.
Though once inside, she stared at herself through the cracked mirror. Her blonde hair hung limp around her face, the once-vibrant blue streaks now faded to a dull teal. Seven years after Nevermore Academy, and the girl who’d once worn colors like they saved lives now flinched at her reflection. The bags under her eyes had become permanent fixtures, too. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. Not the automatic customer service grimace she’d perfected, but an actual smile.
The back door was propped slightly open with a brick – a violation of about six different safety policies, but the manager’s cigarette breaks took precedence over security concerns. Enid slipped through the gap and into the drizzle.
The rain hit her face and soaked through her thin shirt within seconds. She didn't flinch, though. If anything, the chill felt clarifying, almost good. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with wet air that smelled of gasoline and coming winter.
She glanced up at the sky, searching. There was nothing but low clouds reflecting the orange glow of distant Chicago. No stars. No moon. Just eternal night.
“Can’t even give me a fucking moon,” she muttered, rain running down her face and neck. “Figures.”
Tomorrow, however, was the full moon. She’d chosen it deliberately – a chance to transform, to let the wolf take over for one final run. She’d planned it all out. Walk into the forest preserve thirty miles north, wait for the change, and then... let go. Whether the wolf within understood or not, Enid knew it was the closest thing to peace she’d find. Becoming the beast she’d repressed for years, then surrender to whatever darkness claimed her.
The rain intensified, drumming against the metal awning behind her. Enid closed her eyes and let herself imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like tomorrow, when the pain ended. When her bones broke and rearranged. When the rush of wind pushed through her fur. When freedom pulled her on four legs instead of two. One last time.
A buzz from her pocket made her eyes snap open, hand automatically reaching for her phone. The screen glowed with an unfamiliar number, the only type of call allowed to break through her do-not-disturb settings. She stared at it, unmoving. No one had this number except bill collectors and the occasional temp agency. It was 3:21 AM. Nothing good came from calls at this hour.
The phone continued to vibrate, insistent. Four rings. Five. She should have let it go to voicemail. Whatever crisis existed on the other end of that line wouldn’t matter by tomorrow night.
Six rings.
Enid swiped to answer before she could think better of it, a reflex born from years of hoping for the next job, the next couch to sleep on, the next chance. She pressed the cold screen to her ear, rain still dripping from her face.
“Hello?”
“Is this Enid Sinclair?” The voice on the other end was professional but tired, the brand of exhaustion from working overnight in a place where sleep wasn’t a luxury for everyone involved.
“Yeah.” Enid leaned back against the brick wall. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Melissa Jeffers. I’m calling on behalf of St. Agnes Hospital in Astoria, Oregon.” The woman paused, and Enid heard papers shuffling. “I apologize for calling at this hour, but it’s urgent.”
Oregon. Enid couldn’t recall knowing anyone in Oregon. She’d never even been there. “I think you have the wrong—”
“A patient here, Wednesday Addams, listed you as her emergency contact.”
The name hit Enid physically. Her knees nearly buckled, and she pressed her palm against the rough brick to steady herself. Wednesday Addams. A name she hadn't heard or spoken in nearly six years.
“That’s impossible,” Enid muttered, her mind struggling to process. “I haven’t talked to Wednesday since—”
“Miss Sinclair, I understand this might be unexpected.” The nurse’s tone softened slightly. “Miss Addams was admitted tonight following a collapse at her home. She’s currently in our care, but we have an immediate concern. Her son is here at the hospital with no other guardian present.”
“Her son?” The words didn’t make sense strung together. ‘Wednesday’ and ‘son.’ “Wednesday has a kid?”
“Yes, a four-year-old boy.” A pause, then: “Miss Addams specifically requested we contact you. She was quite insistent before they took her for testing.”
Enid stared at the dark sky, rain falling directly into her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision and her thoughts. “Listen, there must be some kind of mistake. We haven’t spoken in years. I don’t even know where she lives. Why would she—”
“Miss Sinclair.” The nurse’s voice took on an edge of urgency. “I understand this is unexpected. But right now, a four-year-old boy is sitting in our pediatric wing with only hospital staff watching him. His mother is undergoing emergency treatment for a potential pancreatic condition. You are the only emergency contact listed in Ms. Addams’ file.”
Enid slid down the brick wall until she was crouching, phone pressed to her ear, water running down her neck and spine. Wednesday had a child. Wednesday was in the hospital. Wednesday had listed Enid — Enid, whom she hadn't spoken to in years — as her emergency contact.
Wednesday, who had once corrected their biology textbook’s chapter on poisons in her precise, neat handwriting. Who had silently appeared at Enid’s side during full moons at Nevermore, never acknowledging the transformation but somehow always there afterward with a fresh change of clothes. Who had spent countless nights in their dorm room, neither speaking, but the silence never empty.
“What about her family?” Enid asked. “The Addamses. Her parents. Her brother.”
“Miss Addams requested specifically that her family not be contacted.” Another pause. “She was quite clear about this. She said — and I’m quoting her directly — ‘Call Enid first. Only Enid.”
A memory surfaced, unbidden: Wednesday’s face, seventeen years old and stone-cold as always, beside Enid’s bed in a hospital room. It was after a transformation gone wrong that had left Enid with several broken bones and more stitches than she could count. But Wednesday was there. She was always there. The night had ended with them filling out emergency contact forms together, putting each other’s names down because it had seemed simpler than explaining what they meant to one another. If there was one thing Enid could remember in the haze of pain, it was Wednesday’s words, “If I ever get poisoned, tell them to check for nightshade first. My system’s built up a tolerance.”
But that had been a school form. A temporary arrangement. A joke, almost.
“I— I can’t,” Enid stuttered. “I can’t just fly to Oregon. I don’t have enough money, I don’t—”
She stopped. The money. The four thousand dollars in her backpack, set aside for a funeral no one would attend. The cash split into envelopes for people who probably wouldn’t miss her.
“Miss Sinclair, are you still there?”
Enid pressed her forehead against her knees, phone clutched tight. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Look, I realize this is a lot to process at once. But I need to know if you’re able to help. If not, we’ll need to contact Child Protective Services.”
The words washed over Enid in a sick wave of nausea. Child Protective Services. A four-year-old boy. Wednesday’s son.
“Put her on the phone,” Enid said suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Wednesday. Let me talk to her.”
The nurse hesitated. “Miss Addams is currently sedated for testing. She’s not able to answer the phone.”
“Then how do I know this is real?” The question came out harsher than Enid intended.
The nurse’s sigh carried through the phone. “Miss Sinclair, right now, there’s a four-year-old boy who needs someone. If it helps, I can have administration verify everything in the morning. But we need a decision now.”
Enid closed her eyes. What would it matter if she said no? By tomorrow night, none of this would be her problem. She could hang up the phone, finish her shift, and proceed with her plan. Let Oregon’s Child Protective Services deal with Wednesday Addams’ mysterious son. Let the chips fall where they may.
And yet.
“What’s his name again?” Enid asked, her voice quieter.
“Jude,” the nurse replied. “Jude Addams.”
Jude Addams. The name of a child who didn’t deserve to be abandoned. A child who was sitting alone in a hospital while his mother underwent emergency treatment for whatever had put her there.
Enid thought of her own father, who had died when she needed him most. Of her mother, who had never understood her. Of her brothers, who had stopped returning her calls. Of her ex-fiancé, whose hands had left more than physical scars.
She thought of Wednesday Addams, seventeen years old, sitting by her bedside, meticulously filling out an emergency contact form with Enid’s name.
“Miss Sinclair?”
“How do I get there?” Enid asked, the words leaving her mouth before her brain had fully caught up. “To Astoria?”
The nurse gave a small sigh of relief. “There’s a regional airport in Astoria, but most flights connect through Portland. I can email you the hospital address and local accommodations.”
Enid nodded, looking down at her shoes. “Yeah. Do that.”
She recited her email address, an old account she rarely checked anymore. Her fingers had gone numb from the cold, and her uniform clung to her skin uncomfortably. But right now, other things mattered.
“When shall we expect you?”
Enid glanced back towards the gas station, where the backpack waited with all her final arrangements. Where her shift would end in under four hours. Where her life, such as it was, would conclude with a whimper.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
After disconnecting, Enid remained crouched against the wall for several minutes, rain continuing to wash over her. The sky remained black, clouded, moonless.
A boy named Jude. Wednesday Addams as a mother. Emergency contact.
She pushed herself upright and walked back inside, dripping water across the storeroom floor. The clock on the wall read 3:38 AM - plenty of time to book a flight, call a cab, and write a new letter explaining her abrupt departure.
Plenty of time to postpone dying, at least for a little while.
Enid tugged open her backpack, pulled out the unaddressed envelope, and tore it in half without re-reading its contents. The pieces fell into the trash can beside the register.
“Guess you get one more month, Sinclair,” she muttered, pushing back through the door to finish her shift. “Make it count.”