A woman in a white coat slides a large, cold cylinder over Céline’s belly, a thing connected to a machine that beeps and displays figures in red. Another one floods Céline’s crotch with Betadine. They appear to think it’s going to happen right now, they’re saying that the cervix is dilated, and given the screams Céline is letting out at regular intervals, the contractions are close together. The gynaecologist finally arrives: they assume it’s a doctor, judging by the sudden deference of the nurses as soon as he turns up. He slowly washes his hands, concentrating on every bit of skin, rubbing in the hollows between his fingers and his wrists, up to halfway up his forearms. He finally sits on a stool at the foot of the bed, without looking at the girl’s face.

“It’s happening, Mademoiselle. Let’s pull ourselves together and get on with it.”

Céline is crying, her nose running, she’s in pain and she doesn’t know what let’s get on with it means.

The gynaecologist taps on her thigh, visibly annoyed.

“Listen … Céline?” He’s stuck his nose into the admission record hanging on the edge of the bed on wheels. “You’re going to have a baby, so either you get down to work, or we give you a Caesarian. It’s up to you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she asks, her voice hoarse from crying.

“Haven’t you attended any childbirth classes?”

Céline starts crying even harder. The gynaecologist sighs. He looks at his patient and at Jo, next to her. He finally seems to realize he’s dealing with two kids; he gestures at the midwife, mutters a few words to her, she nods and adds a couple of notes to the file.

“We can’t give you an epidural, so you’ll have to be brave. But it won’t take long. The baby’s here, begging to come out.”

“But it’s too soon, isn’t it?” Johanna finally dares to ask.

“Of course it’s too soon, but if … Céline gets down to work quickly, we should manage it and the baby will go into an incubator. We’re not in the 1960s any more, and I’ve delivered babies that were even more premature than this one.”

Jo thinks the man’s quite nice. Even if he looks bored, even if he looks annoyed at Céline’s fear, though as far as Jo’s concerned she’s quite entitled to be terrified.

“I’d like to wait for my maman,” Céline finally blurts out with a sob.