Conroy was back at the mess on the floor. Theo shooed him out and got down on his hands and knees to clean it up, holding his breath. How ridiculous. She was about to have a baby, and here he was, flinching at the smell of vomit.

“Uh-oh,” Maus said.

By the time he’d risen, the contraction was upon her. She’d pulled her legs upward, drawing her heels toward her buttocks. Tears were squeezing from the corners of her eyes.

“It hurts! It hurts!” She rolled suddenly onto her side. “Press my back, Theo!”

She had never said anything about this. “Where? How should I press it?”

She was shouting into the pillow. “Anywhere!”

He gave an uncertain push.

“Lower! For godsakes!”

He curled his hand into a ball and pressed his knuckles into her; he felt her pushing back. He counted the seconds: Ten, twenty, thirty.

“Back labor.” She was panting for breath. “The baby’s head is shoving against my spine. It’ll make me want to push. I can’t push yet, Theo. Don’t let me push.”

She drew up onto her hands and knees. She was wearing only a T-shirt. The sheets beneath her were soaked with fluid, giving off a warm, sweet smell, like mown hay. He remembered his dream of the field, the waves of golden sunlight.

Another contraction; Mausami groaned and dropped her face into the mattress.

“Don’t just stand there!”

Theo got on the bed beside her, positioning his fist on the ridge of her spine, and leaned in, pushing with all his might.

Hours and hours. The contractions continued, hard and deep, through the length of the day. Theo stayed with her on the bed, pressing her spine until his hands were numb, his arms rubbery with fatigue. But compared to what was happening to Mausami, this small discomfort was nothing. He left her side only twice, to call Conroy in from the yard and then, as the day was ending and he heard him whining at the door, to let him out again. Always by the time he returned up the stairs Mausami was shouting his name.

He wondered if it was always like this. He didn’t really know. It was horrible, endless, like nothing he’d ever experienced. He wondered if Mausami would have the energy, when the time came, to push the baby out. Between contractions she seemed to float in a kind of half sleep; she was focusing her mind, he knew, readying herself for the next wave of pain to move through her. All he could do was press her back, but this seemed to be helping very little. It didn’t seem to be helping at all.

He was lighting the lantern—a second night, he thought with despair, how could this go on a second night?—when Maus gave a sharp cry. He turned to see watery blood pour from her, running in ribbons down her thighs.