“He told me he had to do something, or the Missouri men would have done worse. That stupid drill was just to keep them happy.”

“Huh. You believe him?”

Another contraction snaps Becky Joyner awake, and she gasps in pain. Jefferson yanks the canvas flap shut and disappears.

The sun rises and burns its way across the sky, and still there is no baby. I continue to sit with Becky, telling her stories about growing up in Dahlonega, giving her sips of warm, brackish water, squeezing her hand through contractions.

“It was this way with both the other children,” she says after a bad one. Her skin is pallid and clammy. Salt streaks her face, and her hair is plastered to the side of her face. “With Olive, I was abed for thirty-six hours. Andrew was almost twenty-four.”

“That sounds awful,” I say.

She can’t answer because another contraction takes her. I murmur meaningless but soothing words. This one lasts forever. I’m just starting to wonder if I ought to go get Jasper when her face relaxes.

“That was more than a minute,” I tell her with forced cheer. “They’re getting longer.”

She nods and gives me a brave, brief smile. Then she screams.

The waves come, over and over, relentless and fierce. She was right all along; she’s going to die. I check between her legs one last time. If there’s no progress, I’m fetching Jasper, no matter what she says.

I see the tiny crown of a baby’s head.

“Oh!” I say.

Her eyes fill with panic. Fingernails claw into the back of my hand.

“Your baby has curly black hair!” I tell her.

Joy like I’ve never seen lights her sweaty face, makes her almost beautiful.

“The next time you feel a contraction, you should push, right?”

There is no answer, only agony. A vein on her forehead pops out. Her low, guttural groan crescendos into an agonizing scream. I glimpse the baby’s shoulders for a split second before its tiny body slips out, almost leaping into my outstretched hands.

“A girl,” I whisper, staring. She’s so little.

The slimy little bundle coughs, gasps, and then cries out, tiny but vigorous.

“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Joyner sobs, reaching out her arms. I place the baby where she belongs, and all the worry and pain drop away from the woman’s face like they never happened. The umbilical cord drapes across Becky’s torso and ends on the mattress in a mess of afterbirth. News first, clean up later.

I open the canvas flap and see eight weary bodies clustered in the shade of the tent, which has been stretched out flat like an awning. Their faces stare up at me in anticipation.

“A girl,” I say. “She’s fine. Her ma’s fine too.” I blink against the brightness. When did everything get so blurry? Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in more than a day.