The buzz rose in intensity as she neared, as if in response to her proximity. She peered over the rim of the trash can. The inside was sparkling.

It was only when she looked closer that the glittering revealed itself to be a thick coating of metallic-green blowflies, rising and falling like a living wave.

Something lay within, attracting the swarm. It had no smell. Cautiously, she reached out a socked foot and kicked the bin.

The flies rose in a chaotic mass, swirling around her head in a horrid black cloud. She swatted at them, swinging her arms frantically. Horrified by the thought of their hairy little feet touching her, spreading whatever filth they found in the trash on her bare arms and face and in her hair.

Finally, the cloud dissipated. The room quieted, aside from the hum of the air conditioning unit and the especially loud ticking of a wall clock. Printed it in a curve around the top of the clock was the word MATERNAL—a very Freudian sick joke.

She leaned over the trash can.

Revulsion crawled like insects on her skin.

A fetus lay within, nestled among the trash, covered in blood and thick, white clots of vernix caseosa. The girl was dead, her pallor a dark, bruised purple.

Sheila fought back her gorge, barely managed to swallow it before stepping out into the empty hall and calling for the doctor.

"Hello! Dr. Mulligan!"

A tiny cough answered her call. Startled, Sheila returned to the trash bin. The purple in the girl's face mellowed as oxygen reached her lungs. She cried—just a single whimper, but more than enough for Sheila to be certain the girl was alive.

Footsteps approached the door. She twisted around, suddenly frightened.

Dr. Mulligan stood in the doorway, dressed in stained overalls rather than his doctor's white. He smiled. "Hello, Dr. Tanner." Flies buzzed out of his mouth and circled his head like a malignant halo. "Feeling all right?"

"That baby is still alive," she said. It felt silly to have to say it. The baby was crying incessantly now. Only a deaf person could miss it.

"We'll get that taken care of."

He shouted for the nurse. She came promptly, lugging a Shop-Vac behind her. It was Geraldine McKenna, wearing an old-fashioned white nurse's dress and cap and her white silk gloves.

"The trash requires disposal," the doctor told her.

"No," Sheila said. "No, she's not dead. Someone threw her away but she's not dead!"

The doctor gave her a condescending glower. "Of course, she's dead. She was never born. You didn't want her. You asked us to remove her for you."

Sheila looked down. Her fresh gown was soiled by a dark, blooming stain. Her flesh felt saggy around her belly. How long had she been carrying the girl inside of her? Weeks? Months?

"No, she's not mine. I wouldn't do that—"

"Oh, but you did," Dr. Mulligan said as Nurse MacKenna crossed the room between them. A whiff of rot carried on his breath, bad enough to make Sheila gag again. "And she most certainly is dead. I should know. I'm dead too."