Mara had been right to bring the cool cloth. False labor commingled with exhaustion and sudden September winter. In Calliope’s fevered state, she was barraged by crows, flailing themselves headfirst, breaking their necks against her body, turning her into a tree, rooted to the ground. She transformed into a crow, alighted from her own branches, wounded herself with black pinpricks, stabbed the ice-white sky. Fever. Dead crows. Suuke.

She sweated and cramped, sweated and cramped, for hours.

Chance had been holding her, she realized when she came through the haze. He’d been chanting in Zuni.

“Mujer, hesitant as I am to admit it, we’ve got to keep moving. I need to get you to the rez. My mother’s people. They’ll know what to do.”

“Thanks, Chance. I appreciate you sitting here with me and everything. But I can’t go to Zuni. I still haven’t found my boy, my family. They won’t know to look for me there.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’m not telling you to give up. I wouldn’t say that. Just hear me out. On the rez, many Zuni women have died in childbirth …” Calliope pulled away, leaned forward, groaning. Chance put a hand on her shoulder, said, “Wait, mujer. I asked you to listen. Please.”

She stared into the quartz of his eyes. Leaned back against the armrest.

“I’m not saying you’re going to die. It’s just that I don’t know how to help you with childbirth. I’m out of my scope. A Suuke comes or a psycho with a knife, I’ve got you covered. You need to find food? You want to talk about bubble universes? I’m your guy. But little people crawling out of you? Look, I haven’t told you what Zunis believe about giving birth ’cause you’re not Zuni … Bisabuela is of The People, but it’s not exactly the same.”

Calliope’s head ached, the sweat of her fever had soaked her clothes. She needed to use the bathroom and change. “What’s your point, Chance?”