She had been far from sure, until she heard the money, which was $2,000 a month for the duration, plus a $5,000 bonus after delivery.

Hired to have a baby, damnedest thing. Eighteen grand, doled out two grand on the first of every month in cash, no taxes, no records, plus the little nest egg to look forward to.

It’d be an easy pregnancy, Sergeant Walker had said. Dr. Turner was a genius. The highest level of care throughout. So, yeah, she’d carry their baby.

At first, all had seemed normal. The first trimester had been a matter of coming in, getting ultrasounds, and walking out with a purse full of money. She felt that she was blossoming, somehow. She’d feared morning sickness, but there was never any sign of it.

When she began to get big, she walked the streets proudly. They’d given her a gold band, and she wore it. People loved her. Guys were protective. It was wonderful.

But there had been no real hospital and this was not even a decent birthing room and Sergeant Walker was hardly an obstetrician, or even a midwife. It was all dingy and Dr. Turner was like some kind of looming crow or whatever, always asking questions about her private things, urination and whatnot. Disgusting man, those eyes that always avoided hers, those hands, fingers as cold as snakes, touching her. Loathsome.

Now it was the fifth hour of labor, and what had begun as just a little tightness had become a swaggering monster, slamming her spine and tearing her muscles.

It was wrong, the baby was too damn big even for a widesider such as her, she could feel herself breaking.

“I need a real doctor.”

“I’m a doctor,” Dr. Turner said for the millionth time.

“I hate you, Dr. Turner. So much.”

Another contraction came, so ferocious that she thought her churning gut would explode the baby out into their damn faces. Then there was another gush of blood, another one.

“I’m sick, I’m gonna throw up, I’m bleeding too much.” Red agony as Sarge held her over a metal trash can full of bloody towels, and she vomited on them, black vomit. “It’s full of blood,” she gasped. “I’m dying, you bastards.”

Turner watched her, his narrow face carefully emptied of expression. Like an executioner.

This was a government thing and this was a government place that wasn’t supposed to look like one.

She tried to shout at him, but all that came out was a whisper. “For God’s sake, get me to an emergency room.”

“You’re fine, Martha.”

“I need a cesarean. Get me a damn cesarean.”

Outside, she could hear the cable car coming up California, rattling and clanging, and imagine the tourists and the rushing sky and the pearly bay.