“Put up the dams,” Santa Elena barks. Two of her crew, a man and a woman, move to the edges of the drainage channel and haul up partitions that catch the water, creating a miniature tank that fills to knee-depth in a minute.

My hands are shaking.

“Dump the purse,” the captain orders the men to her left. They wrap their arms around the tank that holds the Reckoner pup and tilt it over slowly but surely until the amniotic fluid drains into the pool, the sac sliding out after it. The waters flush a muted orange, and the pup convulses in its purse.

I grab the rest of my tools and step over the barrier, shuddering as the chill of the seawater sinks into me. The amniotic fluid forms a thin, slimy skin on the water’s surface, one that the pup will have to fight once it’s free-breathing. I set the tubes, bellows, and towels down on the other side of the partition and move toward the purse, my fingers curling tighter on the knife.

The purse is about four feet long and three feet wide. By my estimates, the pup’s probably around two hundred pounds, almost twice my weight. As soon as this thing gets free, it’s going to have a mind of its own, and it’s up to me to get out of the way before it gets any ideas.

Santa Elena seems aware of this. I can see it in her smirk as she declares, “Have at it.”

I kneel, the water seeping into my shorts, and grab the sac by its bottom. The pup’s awake—its paws press at the leathery womb that surrounds it. Still trembling, I press the blade into the purse until its point punctures the skin. A bubble of amniotic fluid oozes out, and I press harder until the knife’s hook makes it inside the sac. I yank back.

The blade’s sharp, but the membrane is tough. It doesn’t make a clean slice like it ought to. The edges are ragged. I grit my teeth and pull harder until I’ve sliced all the way across the sac’s bottom. The syrupy fluid gushes out, drenching the front of my shirt as I lean over the sac and reposition it, this time so that I’m kneeling at the top.

This is the part I’ve been dreading. This is why it takes so many hands, why my own two won’t be enough, why I stand a good chance of losing one of them.

I hook the knife in the middle of the first incision and start to pull back, carving a T-shaped gash in the membrane. I try my best to lean back, to get out of the way. The pup twitches, and one of its—his, I can see that now—rear legs stretches out into the open air, kicking for the first time without any resistance.