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Suspecting that Michael Chesterson is as worried about his own stamina as his wife’s, Rita shakes her head and assures him, “It won’t be long now.”
    Leaning over the tub, she dips another clean cloth into the warm water and wrings it out swiftly with one hand as her patient’s grip tightens painfully on the other. “You’re doing great, sugar pie,” she croons, expertly mopping the woman’s sweaty brow.
    â€œ. . . Hurts . . .” Laura says through clenched teeth as the contraction wracks her body.
    â€œI know it does. Try not to fight it. If you’re tense it’s more painful.”
    â€œ Need . . . music . . .”
    â€œQuick . . . go change the CD,” Rita orders Michael.
    He rises to his feet, looking relieved to have a few moments’ reprieve. “Which one do you want to hear next, Laura? The Rachmaninov or the Beethoven?”
    â€œI . . . don’t . . . give . . . a . . . flying—”
    â€œI’ll put on the Rachmaninov,” Michael says quickly, and disappears into the next room.
    â€œMen,” Rita says conspiratorially, catching Laura’s eye.
    Her patient manages to smile, then says, amidst grunts and pants, “Yeah. They’re . . . morons.”
    â€œNot always. Michael will be a good daddy. You’ll see.”
    â€œHe . . . better . . . Ow . . . here comes another one. . . .”
    Waiting for the contraction—and Laura’s anguished howling—to subside, Rita takes stock of the items she placed earlier on a clean towel draped over a small folding table wedged between the sink and the toilet. In addition to her blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, fetoscope, and Doppler, there are two sets of sterilized towels, a bottle of mineral oil and one of ammonia, sterile gauze, a small bowl in case Laura vomits during delivery, a plastic bag for the placenta. Her bag in the next room holds other equipment she rarely uses: an oxygen tank and mask, a laryngoscope, an IV line, and drugs including Pitocin and Methergine.
    Everything is ready. Glancing at her patient, Rita notes that the torturous pain seems to have momentarily receded.
    Swiftly trading the washcloth for a rubber glove, she says apologetically, “I’m going to have to check you again, Laura.”
    â€œOh, no . . . no . . .”
    â€œI’ll be as gentle as I can. It might be time to push, but I won’t know unless I see how far you’re dilated.”
    Expertly inserting her latex-covered hand into the birth canal, she murmurs, “I’m so sorry,” at Laura’s primal scream of pain.
    The cervix is at ten centimeters. Time to start pushing.
    â€œCome on back in here, Dad,” she calls to Michael, discarding the glove and smiling down at the writhing woman in the tub. “We’re going to have ourselves a baby.”

    â€œWelcome,” the familiar electronic mail voice announces as the sign-on screen gives way to a mailbox icon with the flag raised. “You’ve got mail.”
    Mouse in hand, Derry left-clicks on the icon, then takes a handful of cheese popcorn from the bag in her lap as the list of incoming messages pops up.
    Singing along with the Journey CD on the stereo, she scans the subject lines, looking for something more interesting than spam, bargains, and endless dirty jokes forwarded by her teenaged nephew. She licks the salty cheese dust off her stinging index finger, its nail bitten painfully low thanks to a lifelong habit that’s intensified in the stress of these last few weeks.
    After drying her finger on her sweatpants, she repeatedly presses the Delete key, scrolling down the list of mail.
    Boring, boring, boring . . .
    Baby?
    The single-word subject line is enough to set her heart pounding. She glances from it to the unfamiliar sender—[email protected]—and back again.
    Baby.
    Probably spam.
    She should just delete it.
    Her finger twitches on the