No. That can’t be right. Indie’s got another moon still, maybe a bit less. Either way, it’s too early. But then she’s on her feet and shaking Ma awake, muttering adamantly, “Marin. It’s the baby. The baby’s coming.”

I stand there useless as Ma inspects Indie’s skirt and underthings. “There’s not enough for it to be your bag of waters.”

“It’s something,” she insists.

“Could also be nothing to worry about. Especially if contractions don’t come.”

But deep into the night, when the storm is still howling around the hut, Indie starts complaining of pressure in her stomach. There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in her tone, and she hasn’t cracked a joke since before we sat shoulder to shoulder against the wall. That’s an unnaturally long time for her to remain serious. She’s begun to sweat too, and Ma worries aloud because Indie’s pain waves aren’t coming in any predictable increment.

“Should I get Astra?” I ask. Ma’s best friend has delivered every baby in our pack.

“Not in this weather,” Ma answers. “Just soak a rag in water for Indie’s head.” She holds my sister’s hand while she lies panting on the mat.

I do as I’m told, hating to watch some of the water bead to the dirt floor, wasted. Indie grimaces when I set the damp cloth on her brow.

“Easy breaths, Indie,” Ma tells her. “Low and long.” She coaches her through the night. I help when I’m needed, finish the work on my goggles when I’m not, and somehow manage to sleep a bit in between.

When dawn breaks, the storm’s gone, taking the dust with it, but Indie’s deteriorated. She’s a sweaty mess, and when Astra comes to check on her, I hear her and Ma discussing a fever.

“Flint’s due soon,” I offer. “Maybe he’ll stop in today and we can send him to Zuly’s for a tonic.”

“Indie doesn’t have that long,” Astra says, crouched beside Indie’s mat.

“How can she not have a day and a night? She’s perfectly healthy. She was in the fields working just yesterday.”

“Something’s wrong. Something beyond my means. She needs to see Zuly. Someone needs to take her today.”

I suck in a breath. Needing a tonic from Zuly is bad enough as it is, but to have to go straight to the Ark, to venture out into the wastes to get to her tanker . . . Only the desperate do that, the souls already on death’s doorstep.

“Delta . . .” Ma begins, but I don’t need to see the agony in her eyes or even hear her plead. I nod. This is my sister. What other choice do I have?