Betsy leaned back, sweat dripping, and pushed, not for her but for the baby. It would have been easier if her wrists and waist had not been bound down. It would have been easier if she had been able to sit up, knees bent, but the belt around her prevented that. She pushed. For the baby. Her sweet baby. Their sweet baby. Their love child. Hers and Johnny’s daughter.

When nothing happened, and the situation deteriorated to a dangerous, chaotic level, with yelling on both sides, the doctor, after getting a nod of approval from Clarissa, removed the straps around Betsy’s waist and ankles so she could sit up and bear down.

The baby’s head emerged amidst the mother’s guttural screams.

“Almost there, Betsy,” Clarissa said, encouraged. “One more push. Huge push. Come on, Betsy.”

“She’s coming,” Dr. Rothney said, red and flushed. “Push! Push!”

Betsy yelled and the guard who had been leaning over his knees, overcome with nausea, tumbled to the floor. The other guard leaned over to check on him, then put both hands to his own forehead. He thought he was going to lose his lunch.

The baby slipped out, head and tiny shoulders, a tummy and legs, but she was quiet, too quiet.

“Is the baby okay?” Betsy cried, collapsing against the bed, her voice exhausted, her body spent. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t she crying? Is she okay?”

Dr. Rothney took the baby and turned it in his hand, his hands shaking, and gently tapped her back. Lord, he needed a drink.

The baby’s eyes met Betsy’s. She blinked. Betsy cried, this time with joy tinged with utter, lost sadness. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, Rose.”

The baby blinked again at Betsy, still, solemnly quiet, then, after another slap on her back, she started to cry. One wail only, though, as if to say hello, and then she settled back down.

“It’s a girl,” Clarissa said to Betsy. “But you already knew that.” She had seen Betsy several times in the infirmary here because of the pregnancy. They had talked about the daughter Betsy was expecting. Clarissa liked her, even though she assumed she was delusional. Betsy seemed decades older than her years—there was wisdom behind those gold eyes—but she was in mourning for a baby she knew she couldn’t keep if she was found guilty at trial. Betsy expected to be found guilty.

Clarissa could hardly wait to go home tonight to her three daughters. She could not imagine giving one of them up. Watching what was to come next for Betsy would rip her heart out. She would hate herself, she knew it, even though she wasn’t responsible for what was going to happen. Sometimes women gave birth in here and they were awful criminals, or neglectful and abusive mothers, and their other kids had already been taken away from them, and she was glad the baby was going somewhere else. Not this time.