If they had been lucky, this woman would have been in a real hospital. But an unexpected snowstorm hit, the streets were icy, and the prisoner hadn’t told anyone she was in labor until it was too late to transport her anyhow. It had also been too late to give her an epidural.

“Let me sit up, let me sit up so I can push!” The woman struggled against the restrictive leather straps as she was hit with another excruciating contraction.

The doctor snapped, “Push, woman, push.”

“I can’t push right when I can’t sit up!” the prisoner yelled back at him, her voice hoarse with pain. “I can hardly breathe!”

“Push unless you want this baby stuck in you forever.” The doctor was sweating, too. Dr. Rothney was heavy, in his late fifties, his face blasted with broken red veins.

There were two guards nearby. Both young, both pale and sickly looking. Guarding a murderer awaiting trial giving birth wasn’t what they’d signed up for. One leaned over, as if queasy, as the prisoner released a blood-curdling scream again. The other one swallowed hard and stared at the yellowing, cracked wall and tried to think about baseball. They were there to guard the inmate from leaving, but it didn’t look like she could get anywhere fast, so it didn’t make much sense.

The nurse held the woman’s hand. This was against the rules, but no one said anything. Everyone respected Clarissa. Or feared her. Depending on if she thought you were competent or an idiot, and she would tell you which one you were. “You can do this, Betsy. You can do it.”

“And if I do?” the murderer, Betsy, panted out. “You’re going to take it. You’re going to take my baby!” She roared, raw and pained, as another contraction dang near split her in two.

The nurse was tough, but she wanted to cry. It was true. They were taking the baby. Betsy’s father, a hypocritical minister, wanted nothing to do with the baby. He had told Clarissa on the phone when she called him and his wife weeks ago about the baby, and told them they could make a claim with the state for the child.

“The girl has sinned,” the minister thundered. “She has broken God’s law, may Jesus forgive her. She has fallen into sexual sin. She has fallen into the devil’s hands. She has committed a crime, and she is bound for hell. We will pray that the Lord removes the evil spirits from within her.”

“But do you want the baby?” she’d asked.

“No,” the minister said. “It is illegitimate. It is a bastard. We don’t want it. We will not bring more of this cursed affliction into—” He stopped then, in the middle of his rant. “Praise the Lord, we are not taking that baby.”

Clarissa thought she heard a woman in the background protesting, her voice tearful, but the minister boomed, “Be quiet and obey me, wife,” and hung up.