Fortunately, the adoptive parents were waiting downstairs. They had been told that the mother had to give up the baby, as she would be in prison, after her trial, for years. In the highly unlikely, ludicrous event that Betsy was found innocent, the adoptive parents would have to give the baby back to her, as agreed by signed legal papers, but everyone with a brain knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“If you don’t push, Betsy,” Clarissa said, “the baby will die.”

Betsy cried then, a gush of tears and hysteria. “I don’t want the baby to die,” she panted, near hysterical with pain. “I don’t want the baby to die. I don’t want the baby to die.”

“Save her then, Betsy,” Clarissa said. “Save her.”

Dr. Rothney made a choking sound in his throat. He had worked here in the jail for five years. He hated the job, but it was the only place that would hire him after two—well, three—problems at other hospitals. He had almost lost his license but had liquidated his retirement fund, the money that had not been used for gambling and alcohol, and had hired an expensive, effective attorney. He lost his job at the hospital downtown, but here, with lousy pay, they had overlooked his reputation to be an in-house jail doctor.

This young woman had killed a man, that’s why she was locked up. But he knew this one’s history. He knew about the upcoming trial. He was not convinced Betsy was guilty in the first place. When women killed men, it was usually in self-defense. Like his mother, when she shot her boyfriend in front of him when he was seven years old because he kept slamming her face into a wall.

Between Betsy’s shaking legs, Dr. Rothney bent his head. He knew he was a lousy doctor, his alcoholism had a dark, unbreakable grip on him, but he still had a heart. It was covered in regrets and guilt, it was drowned by a painful childhood, but it was still there.

“I want my baby,” Betsy cried, chanting to herself as if she’d half lost her mind to pain and grief. “I want her. I love her. I want her. I love her.” She convulsed and screamed again, a scream that wound down the corridors of the jail where some women were playing cards, some were chatting, and one was sneaking up on another and then jumped her. The woman who was jumped would end up in the infirmary, slashed with a toothbrush that had been carved into a knife, right across the neck. The woman who attacked the prisoner would end up in solitary, where she would sing to herself about rabbits.

“I love her,” Betsy sobbed. “I love you, Rose. I love you. . . .”

Dr. Rothney’s eyes filled with tears, but he told himself to buck up. He didn’t know how Betsy knew the baby was a girl, but he didn’t doubt her. He had checked on her and the pregnancy on several occasions and she was . . . interesting. Almost ethereal. Courageous. He had been brusque with her, though, maybe a little cold, he thought guiltily, not wanting to get involved. Quickly the doctor pushed down his feelings, as he’d done all his life. He stood up, put his hands on Betsy’s knees, and ordered, not without compassion, “Push, or you will die, too. Push, Betsy.”