Oh, God! Oh, God!

A final push. Animal intensity. Muscles quivering. Primal sounds squeezing from her throat. Sweating and grunting like a beast. The cruel fist clenching and tearing low in her belly. Her eyes fluttered. Her vision went dark. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear but for the buzzing inside her head.

The pain shifted and eased. She sucked in a breath. Her senses returned. For an instant, she lay there, panting and exhausted, trying to absorb the magnitude of what she’d done.

After a moment, she sat up. A sob tore from her throat when she saw the bluish, bloody mass. A dark shock of hair matted with blood. Tiny hands and feet moving. Wrinkled red face. Little mouth mewling like a kitten.

She should have anticipated the blood. Warm and wet and slick on her skin. Bright red and shimmering against the floor. The sight of it terrified her anew. Not because it had come from her body, but because she didn’t know how she would get it cleaned up before someone discovered her secret.

Panic nipped at her with sharp teeth. She’d read all the books; she knew what to do. Hands shaking, she grasped the scissors. Not thinking, not letting herself feel, she snipped.

More blood.

Another cry.

And the final tie was severed.

* * *

The bishop dreamed of repairing the fence. The one on the south side of the pasture that had been kicked last spring by that rambunctious bay colt, knocking the third rail off the post. His wife had been after him to fix it for weeks now. He’d never admit it, but it was getting harder and harder to keep up with all the chores around the farm these days. Kneeling, he set the bubble level atop the board, set the nail against the wood, and let the hammer fly with a satisfying whack!

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The old man startled awake. Disoriented, he sat up, listening, unsure what had roused him. A noise outside his window? One of the animals? He glanced over at his wife, sleeping soundly beside him, and sighed. It seemed the livestock always got into trouble at night. The horses. The milk cows. That little pygmy goat that had gotten separated from its mother last week. It didn’t matter how secure the pasture or barn, they always found a way to escape. Might as well rise now and get a jump on the day’s chores.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound was faint, a barely discernible rap from downstairs. A neighbor stopping by to let him know that fat little goat had escaped its pen again? The little rascal was more trouble than he was worth. But the old man smiled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was reaching for his clothes draped over the rocking chair when he heard the other sound. Not the goat, but the soft mewl of an abandoned kitten. Or a cat that had been injured, judging from the intensity of its cry. Whatever the case, it needed help.