AS SHE LAY IN BED, awaiting with some dread the onset of the next contraction, Naty couldn’t keep from thinking about her mother. Mother: who had birthed her, along with her five brothers and three sisters. Mother: whose magnificent, sturdy birthing hips she had inherited. Mother: still living, with her brothers and sisters, in that tiny house in the raucous market district of Agdao half a world away.
Not for long, she thought hopefully, not for long.
“Soyez prêt. Contraction à venir,” a soft voice said. She felt the tightening in her stomach, and she strained against the pain. It lasted, she felt, for a very long time. When it finally released her, she gasped for air.