On a glacier in southern Iceland, Chief Inspector Vigdís Jónsdóttir of the Icelandic National Police stamped her feet against the cold. She watched as Detective Inspector Einar Thorvaldsen animatedly walked around the death scene, stopping from time to time to peer closely at the desiccated corpse still sitting bizarrely amidst the burned remains of the camp site. The helicopter that brought them there idled a hundred yards away; the sound of its engine competing with the thunder that rumbled in the distance as the ash plume from the Eyjafjallajökull volcano continued to rise. Every so often the ground shook a little as another particularly strong explosion occurred. Rocks littered the landscape from the major eruption from earlier in the week, and two constables stood nervously nearby, scanning the sky for more falling rocks.

"Get a move on, detective; this isn't a safe place to loiter. Do we have an ID?" Vigdís asked.

"Yes, Chief Inspector. An American named Richard Cirillo. Judging from the papers he left at his hotel, he came here last week. He's some sort of eco-tourist. Or eco-nut; it's hard to say."

Vigdís stopped stamping her feet and peered at the constable. "Eco-nut? Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Chief, have you heard of the Gaia hypothesis?" asked Einar.

"The idea that the earth is a self-correcting system? Yes, I have," said Vigdís.

"Well, he was a believer. That's not so big of a deal, but believed in a pretty extreme version of it. He thought the earth was alive, and seeking revenge on humanity for the damage we've caused."

"Alive? Really?"

"Yes, really. There are some that believe the earth views us as essentially an infection, and that our drilling and mining and polluting has essentially awakened an autoimmune response."

"That's ridiculous."

"It gets even more bizarre. This guy thinks that since the autoimmune response isn't working, the Earth is going to try something else. Check out the first page," Einar said, handing Vigdís a charred notebook.

The cover of the book was burnt, but the pages inside where in good shape. The first page said, Observation Diary: The Birth of Gaia's Daughters.

"What does it mean?" she asked Einar.

"Keep reading," he said.

Vigdís turned the page.

The data are right in front of our collective noses, if we would but look with an open mind. The plants and trees all around us are her sensory organs; the seas are her digestive system, and the rocks and soil is her skeleton. For many centuries, she tolerated our presence, much as we humans tolerate the presence of germs on our skin. But as our impact on her health has grown, she has begun to react more aggressively. We log the rainforests, injuring her ability to sense and control her own atmosphere, so she causes the deserts to expand to drive us away. We drill into her to extract her blood to burn in our factories and our automobiles, and she tries to shake our derricks off of her skin. We have infected her now, and she is running a fever to try to drive us away.

I am here to watch.

"I don't get it," Vigdís said.

"We're on the slope of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano," Einar explained, "which Cirillo apparently thinks is the site of the birth of the daughters of Gaia."

Vigdís was incredulous. "You mean to tell me this guy flew all the way to Iceland because he thinks this is below the Earth's bikini line and he wanted to camp out and play midwife? That's ridiculous," she repeated, putting the notebook in her pocket.

"Hey, don't look at me," said Einar. " I'm just telling you he believed it; I'm not justifying it."

Vigdís sighed. "I know you're not, Detective. Honestly, I do. I just have to wonder what some of these Americans eat that makes them so crazy. OK, what's the cause of death? Tent fire?"

"Well, that's the interesting part," said Einar. "I thought it might have been that, but there's no obvious source of ignition. No camp stove, no heater, no candles. And there's no evidence of fire progression. It looks like it happened all at once, almost like he was caught in a pyroclastic flow, except there is no evidence of a pyroclastic flow anywhere but right here. It's a puzzle."

Eyjafjallajökull rumbled again.

"We don't have time for puzzles, Detective," Vigdís said. "Bag the body, collect what you can from the site, and let's get out of here."

"Yes ma'am," Einar replied.

Vigdís left them to do the dirty work, and made her way back to the helicopter. "Five minutes," she told him.

She took the notebook out of her pocket and started to look through it, but it was mostly full of drawings of rocks; the few notes were either in code or illegible. She put the notebook away, and looked at the distant lava flows from Eyjafjallajökull as they made their way to the sea.

When she turned back to check on Einar's progress, he and the constables were nowhere to be seen. Had they gone down the slope out of sight? Cursing, she got out of the helicopter and walked toward the campsite again.

There was a whistling noise, and she looked up just in time to see a huge rock fall from the sky and smash the helicopter to smithereens. It was almost as if the rock had deliberately targeted the helicopter.

She looked around, trying to figure out what she should do next.

That's when she noticed that the rocks were moving towards her.

It was funny, Eliza thought, how many more pregnant women you notice when you yourself were sporting a belly that could get you arrested under suspicion of shoplifting watermelons. Everywhere she went, she took note of women with a more rounded form, a slight waddle to their walk, and that tell-tale hand on their lower back whenever they stopped to take a breather. It seemed like they were everywhere. Eliza had learned how to approximate how far along a woman was. A slight puffiness could be first trimester, or a recent birth, or even a need for a few extra hours at the gym. Taut roundness that most would describe as “cute” was second trimester. Large, distended bellies that seemed to defy gravity were third trimester, and that coupled with a look of sheer agony usually meant “due-any-day-now.”

Eliza always took note of the “due-any-day-now” women.

Eliza also learned that people seemed to love petting pregnant women. She was constantly on guard for people trying to reach out and pat her. Not only was it unnerving, but it also put her at risk for her secret slipping out. Her best defense, she realized, was to make sure that whenever she was hunting, she made sure to grab a cart to shield her belly. She would lean heavily on the handle, as if she could not bear to support her own weight and that of her belly, making it impossible for anyone to reach her abdomen.

Eliza went hunting a lot.

At first she went to high-end baby furniture stores, but she soon learned that the women who frequented them were the sort to have nice homes with security gates and alarms on their houses. People at discount stores were the wrong sort, largely uneducated and from shallow gene pools. After a while she settled on malls with stores that sold baby clothes exclusively, where the clientele tended to be middle class. She had to rotate through a few spots; she realized early on that the staff at those sorts of places tended to remember their customers, and Eliza did not want to be remembered. She’d dyed her hair a nondescript mouse-brown, and had made a point of wearing boring clothes. When she went, she would make purchases but avoid conversations about what she was having or what her nursery theme was. “I’m going to wait,” she’d reply to queries about gender, “and I don’t want to decorate the nursery until I know what we’re having. The baby will share our room at first, anyway.”

People always accepted that response.

Eliza had learned early on to not give an actual date when she was asked when she was due. “Not soon enough,” was a response that sufficed and avoided any awkwardness should she return to a hunting ground again. Once, she was recognized by a clerk. “Wow,” the girl had said. “I thought you were ready to go any day when I saw you three months ago!” Strangers had turned to stare. “Oh,” Eliza had said with a strained laugh, “twins’ll do that to you.”

Nobody ever saw that clerk again, and Eliza never returned to that mall.

The plan had taken years to develop. At first, Eliza intended on being in the right place at the right time: a woman would go into labor, and Eliza would offer to drive her to the hospital. She’d learned after about two years that that sort of thing only happened on made-for-TV movies. Her next plan was to make a friend, but she soon realized that the more visible she was in someone’s life, the more likely she would be suspected in the end. She finally settled on stalking, and had been hunting for a suitable candidate for almost a year now.

You couldn’t pick just anyone as the mother of your child.

Eliza finally settled on a set of criteria that had to be met: blonde hair, articulate, well-dressed, single. The woman had to be kind; anyone who did not return Eliza’s smiles was automatically out. So was any woman who did not also visit the bookstore on the way out of the mall. Eliza also watched the food courts to make sure that anyone she was considering seriously ate healthy foods and avoided the pretzel place where every item offered had at least half its calories from fat.

After all, if you’re hiding with a newborn, you want to make sure it’s a healthy one.

When Eliza finally found the perfect candidate, she was almost too surprised to act. She was standing in line behind her at the book store, and had said, “Oh, you’re going at it alone, too. I feel so much better knowing I’m not the only one.” She was a bit chatty, but in the next ten minutes, Eliza learned that Jenn had just finished her PhD, had lost her boyfriend shortly afterward, and taught yoga on the weekends. She lived alone in an apartment complex that she’d just moved in to three weeks ago.

It’s amazing, what people will tell strangers.

All it took was an offer of a ride home and Eliza had her quarry trapped. The deed itself was messier than Eliza had envisioned; she’d been practicing on feral cats, but a pregnant woman was much larger. She hadn’t anticipated the muscles being that thick. Eliza regretted that her initial plan hadn’t worked; it would have been so much better for the baby. After a half hour struggle, she broke through the final barrier and, with a gush of liquid, pulled free her child. She held him up and regarded him with joy for one perfect moment, and then dropped him in shock.

That’s when Eliza noticed the title of the book her victim had purchased: Down Syndrome: The First 18 Months.

He sat outside the OR, frozen only because he didn’t know where to go. The entire time they’d been together, they'd always said they didn’t want kids. No way, no how, no siree bob. He didn’t want to subject a kid to his genetic history, and she didn’t want to repeat the mistakes she’d made before. And they were happy with their life, just the two of them.

But one December night they both realized they were only claiming not to want kids for the sake of the other person. He realized something was missing out of their lives, she realized that with him she could love, care for, and appreciate a child in ways she couldn’t last time. It was the right time and the right place.

A few months later, they knew not all things that happen in Vegas stay in Vegas. He wanted to shout it to the world. She said to wait a few months, until the most imminent dangers of miscarriage had passed. So they bit their tongues and joked to each other about how everyone would fall over in shock. It didn’t take long to agree on names for girl or boy, and it didn’t take long to declare that the name wouldn’t be revealed until birth. When the announcements came, they came with squeals and laughter and thunks on the back, not to mention more than a few “I thought you guys didn’t WANT kids?!”

When asked “what are you going to name him?”, the answer was always the same… “Spawn.”

Morning sickness kicked in soon enough. It’s-morning-somewhere sickness, she called it with a rueful laugh. The cough came soon after.

“That blasted COUGH!” He pounded his fists against the hospital bench. It had lasted for weeks, and he’d gotten in a fight with her doctor over it. Eventually she’d gotten better, but it had left her with constant dark circles under her eyes, she continually lost weight, and she was weak and creaky. Never very much to eat, never able to sleep for long.

But the boy was a squirmy little thing inside her. He was constantly moving around, always kicking and rolling around. Even if she wasn’t doing so well, the little one obviously was. Her measurements were always good, and she never seemed worried about it. And if she wasn’t worried, it usually meant he didn’t have to worry. Her new doctor said her weight was fine even if she was losing everything the baby seemed to be gaining. “It’s not like I don’t have it to lose in the first place,” she said. “If he needs it, let him suck it out of me. I’m still taking my vitamins and when I do manage to eat, it’s real food and not junk. Maybe I can actually come out of this having dropped a little weight.”

Near the end, people still didn’t think she was pregnant. Close friends kept thinking she was due months past her actual due date because she still looked like her normal, non-pregnant self. He realized now that should have been a big clue. Women who are nine months pregnant look like they’re about to pop open. She could still wear her jeans, albeit unbuttoned. But still, nobody seemed worried.

She asked her doctor weeks before to schedule an induction because of the constant back pain. He’d been looking forward to speeding down the highway at 3:42am, even with her screaming her head off while in labor. On the calm drive to the hospital, he asked again why she’d chosen the one 45 minutes away with a fully equipped hospital less than 30 seconds from their front door. “Because this is one of the best in the country for Labor and Delivery. If we have access to it, why not take advantage of it?” Sitting on the bench in the hallway of that hospital, he realized that as usual, she was right about these things.

Everything was fine at first, but one thing after another had gone wrong. First her blood-pressure and the baby’s heart rate bottomed out, then they almost gave her an emergency C-section. When they realized she could have their baby normally, the baby had come out with the cord wrapped around him. Twice.

She looked up at him in the operating room, panic clear in her blue eyes. The doctors rushed the baby up to the NICU, and no matter what her doctor said about the first 24 hours being the most unpredictable in any baby’s life, how he’d been healthy and strong throughout her whole pregnancy, and how he was in the best hands he could possibly be, it couldn’t calm either of their fears.

But then the doctor realized her bleeding wouldn’t stop. She’d been wheeled back into the operating room, and a few minutes later a nurse called him to hurry, because the doctor needed to talk to him.

He barely heard a word the doctor said. All he could see was the doctor’s arm, bloody from fingertip to elbow. Something about hemorrhaging and internal bleeding and emergency surgery. He just said, “Do whatever you have to do to save her life.” A few hours later the doctor came out, stripped of the gown and gloves that had been soaked in her blood. He hadn’t dared to hope, and as the doctor’s words sunk in, he knew he had been right. Massive internal bleeding, kidney failure, blood transfusions, emergency hysterectomy. The nurses were wheeling her up to the ICU as her son lay in the NICU, both fighting for their lives and neither able to be with the other where they belonged. Within a few short hours, her body gave in. Now he looked at his son through the NICU window and saw chubby pink arms trying to pull the rebreather off his little face. A fighter, that one, he thought.

“Damien Xavier, you have your mother’s chin.”

John looked at the paper and sighed.

"2012 is here for sure."

"Of course it is, Daddy, last year was 2011, so this year is 2012."

John opened his mouth to explain the reason for his comment, but closed it again. He folded the paper with the headline inside and spent the rest of the evening watching his daughter play with her toys.

He couldn't avoid the discussion at work.

"Did you see the headlines?"

"A 7.1 earthquake in Toronto? Toronto never gets stuff like that."

"Lake Ontario is draining away into the crack. My aunt lives in Oakville and says the lake is just mud as far as she can see."

"How many does this make?" John asked.

"I've lost count," said Marilyn from accounting, "but this is the first one in Toronto."

He shook his head and went into his cubicle to work. It was hard to shut out the continue conversation, but he focused on the spreadsheets as if they were the last things he was ever going to do. Of course if John's fears were correct, they might as well be. He gave into his obsession just before lunch, about five minutes later than yesterday.

Earthquake,2012,new Google churned out some fifteen million hits. That was twice as many as the day before. John looked through them for any new nuggets of information. There wasn't much beyond the usual rampant fear mongering. Just as he was closing the browser he saw a small ad.

'Come to Timmins on the Canadian Shield, the oldest and toughest rock on the planet. If you experience an earthquake over 4 on the Richter Scale we will refund your property taxes.'

It was a long hard fought argument over the next month. John kept bringing home brochures about Timmins while Gloria talked about freezing in the winter and being eaten alive in the summer. Their daughter Allie played quietly and watched them from the corner of her eyes.

"Are you going to get divorced?" she asked one day at breakfast, "Tiffany's mom and dad got divorced. Tiffany say her dad's living with a blond bimbo and her mom's in therapy."

"We are not getting divorced," John said, "We are just having a discussion. It's over now."

And it was for several months, then he was in a meeting going over the sales predictions for 2013 when a quake hit. The other people screamed and crawled under the table or run out of the room. John's legs refused to work so he just sat in his chair until it stopped. Once the floor stopped bucking, John stood up to walk out.

"Where do you think you're going?" yelled his boss from under the table, "We haven't finished the meeting yet."

John looked around at the shambles of the board room.

"I move we adjourn."

"Seconded," came a voice from under the table.

They were in the midst of rescheduling as John left the room. He saw the flashing light on his phone and checked his messages.

"John, you were right. Allie and I are heading to the airport. We'll fly to Timmins and meet you there."

"You don't fly to Timmins," John said, "You have to take the train."

He drove by the house to pick up some clothes for the trip, but the big oak tree from the front yard had flattened everything. He turned around and went to the airport where, with the help of a security guard he found his family.

Gloria was still shaking and Allie had her pink, going-to-daycare backpack on.

"We'll drive north," he said, "and figure it out from there."

They told Allie they were going on vacation, so they did touristy things. Allie packed her souvenirs in the pink back pack. John and Gloria bought clothes and added things as they needed. Now that they were actually doing something John stopped worrying about the end of the world. As they crossed the Mackinaw bridge Gloria leaned over and whispered in John's ear.

"I'm late."

John looked at her for so long that she had to reach out and steer them back into their own lane.

"Really?" He found a grin trying to take over his face.

"Really," she said, "Are you happy? I know you've been really worried about all this end of the world stuff.

"We're going to Timmins," he said, "We'll be fine."

They found Timmins and rented a little apartment above a store on Main St. Allie was thrilled to learn that she was getting a younger brother or sister. Gloria's glow grew with her girth. Their growing child had chased away all John's fear.

His calm lasted until December when the first quake to hit Timmins shook the snow from the trees and put a crack in the road in front of their apartment. John rushed home to find Allie frantically trying to call 911 on a dead phone line while Gloria was counting seconds between contractions.

The earth kept shaking in time with Gloria's contractions as if she too was struggling to give birth. John focused on remembering the pre-natal classes. Dishes fell from the shelves as Gloria shouted and pushed. Just as John's son was born Allie looked out the window.

"There's something out there," she said, pointing at the sky. "It looks like a snake with feathers."

"Quetzalcoatl," John said, surprised at his knowledge.

"He's flying away now, Daddy." Allie waved out the window. "He's pretty."

John walked to the window with his new son and looked out at the being that was swimming through the air away from the earth.

"Look son," he said, "and remember, you share a birthday with a god."

The earth had stopped shaking, so John went back to care for his wife.

"What was that name you said to Allie?" Gloria asked.

"Quetzalcoatl."

"We can't call him that. Let's name him George after my father."

I was asleep downstairs in the sick room when the SS Augustine started to sink. I awoke to Elsie Harkin, my nurse, standing at my bedside.

“Arnold!” she shouted. “Arnold, wake up, we’ve hit a mine!”

I was still half asleep, so the news didn’t hit me at first. “Oh,” I said. “When did this happen?”

“Just a few minutes ago. But the rescue boats haven’t left yet. Nobody could find you on deck, so they sent me here to come get you. We have to go now, Arnold.”

I finally understood the gravity of what was happening. I jumped out of bed, threw on my clothes, and rushed to the door. I was almost out of the room when I noticed Elsie was still standing frozen by my bed, staring at the floor.

“Come on, Elsie,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

She looked at me and frowned as though her feet were glued to the floor. She rubbed the swollen lump on her stomach. I was puzzled for a moment, but then the truth suddenly hit me. And it hit me hard.

“Oh, no,” I murmured, “not now.”

She whimpered softly and sat the down on bed. I ran over to her.

“Listen, Elsie, once we get to the shore, they’ll take you to a hospital. You’re going to be okay.”

“It’s not going to wait.”

“Don’t say that.”

“No,” she said, “it really won’t.” She started to cry. “The contractions started hours ago.”

“Oh, Elsie…”

Her whimpering turned into hysterical wailing. I went to the sink and soaked a washcloth under it. Then I dabbed it on her forehead.

“It’s okay, Elsie,” I said, both to her and myself. “You’re fine.”

She shrieked. I flinched but kept soaking her face. The ship swayed and nearly threw Elsie out of the bed. I got down on a knee and said, “Elsie. Look at me. Get on my back and I can carry you out of here. That’s the way only we’ll get out alive.”

She nodded and tried to sit up. But the ship tilted and the bed slid away and crashed into a wall. Elsie screamed and clenched the bedposts with white, bony fists. That was when I looked down at her dress and realized she was right. The baby was coming.

“Oh, no,” I said, running back over to her. “Okay, Elsie,” I said, stretching my hands out clumsily toward her while looking the other way. “Tell me how I do this.”

Elsie grunted, grabbed the cuff of my shirt and pulled me closer. “Don’t leave me here,” she said, clutching me with a level of strength that surprised me. “Please, Arnold �"”

The ship rocked again, and I thought it was the shame that the SS Augustine was sinking. I remembered when the ship crew discovered me unconscious on a beach and took me on board. I slept next to both German and Ally soldiers. We played cards and smoked and talked about women together. They called this place a “hospital ship,” and it was rumored to be the only place where you could find German and Ally soldiers living together peacefully. But when I lost weight and spiked a fever, the crew quarantined me in a cramped, abandoned sick room on the basement floor. For weeks I saw nobody except Elsie, who was assigned to me. She gave me food, water, books. She told me stories about life in America. She made me feel how the married guys said they felt about their wives, but she was already married to a man named George Harkin. He fought for the Allies and had won a Purple Heart.

The ship shook and the walls groaned. A pipe burst and water started to pour into the room, but I told Elsie she had to keep trying. “Almost there, Elsie, I can see it,” I said. She let out one final shriek, and, somehow, I pulled out the baby.

“Here it is,” I said, smiling and placing it in Elsie’s arms. “Thank the lord, here it is.” Elsie smiled and shut her eyes. The baby boy was silent. Elsie sighed, and, amidst the groaning walls and the flooding, nodded off to sleep.

“Okay,” I said, still beaming, “let’s get going now.” I offered my hand to Elsie, but she was still asleep. I shook her a little, tried to get her to wake up. Nothing happened. I tried to lift her and the baby together, but I didn’t have the strength. I tried to check her pulse, but I couldn’t find it.

She was gone.

I carried the baby upstairs and tried not to get him wet with my tears. I emerged on the deck, where the sky was gray and stormy against the black ocean. The ship was spinning and I felt sick.

There was only one rescue boat that hadn’t left. I got in with the baby and found Pat Russo, one of my old poker friends.

“Arnold!” he shouted over the storm and the other people. He came up to me and said, “glad you could make it. I need help pulling these ropes.” Then he looked down at the baby and frowned. “Whose baby is that? Where’s the mother?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“Where’s Elsie?”

I said nothing, just shook my head again and tried not to think. Pat nodded and said, “right, then. Let’s go pull those ropes.” We pulled the ropes and soon we were rowing away from the ship. Pat put his arm around me. “I’m sorry, Arn,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“It’s okay.”

Pat looked down at the baby. “Handsome, isn’t he?”

“He is,” I said.

“She give him a name?”

I looked back at the ship, which looked like a broken toy in the distance. Then I looked into the baby’s blue eyes. “Yes,” I said, stroking the baby’s hair. “His name’s George. George Harkin, Jr.”

Dillon Rage was driving hurriedly through the dusty dirt roads of San Grea. As he drove he thought about how stupid he was for taking the job in Bolivia. Someone else could and should have gotten it. Frank Smith would have been a good choice. Oops! He’d been killed almost a year ago. Then he thought of Doug Adams, but no, he’d been poisoned by someone this past Christmas. Then, of course, there was George St Peire who’d gotten caught during a job in Spain. Guess there really wasn't much of a choice, so the agency waved enough euros to convince him.

Now there was a chance he was going to miss the birth of his son. He slammed his fist onto the steering wheel and mashed still harder on the gas pedal down further. something he knew he shouldn't have done, the old Chevy that he’d “borrowed” wasn't in the best of shape.

*boom*

"Son of a ... No! No, no! Dillon, calm down. Just change the tire and get home. That is if this old jalopy even has a spare."

He jumped out and ran to the trunk to see if it was his lucky day. Unfortunately, his borrowed ride was not equipped with a spare. So, he sat down next to the car and pondered his next move. A few moments later, a plan hatched inside his mind. It was only three or four miles home and the roads were dirt. He could just drive on the rim! He jumped to his feet and climbed into the car, delighted with the plan to get home.

As he drove, he thought about how well he had planned everything, the private birthing staff, the best birthing equipment, a room that would serve as both birthing and nursery. It was all done in secret so no one would know what was going on. Now, thanks to his own greed, he might just miss the most special day in his life.

Again he mashed hard on the gas pedal, the ride got rough and the rim sounded like it was going to break off, but still it drove. It was only five or ten minutes before his house came into view. It had never looked more lovely. The rust bucket had barely come to a stop when he jumped out and rushed in. He was just hoping against all odds that he wasn't too late. He sped to the front door and turned the handle. Locked. Now, of all times she chooses to listen to him! As he began to unlock the door, he thought about his chosen profession and his good fortune in finding a woman like Missy and having a child with her. Finally the door opened and in he ran, headed straight for the nursery.

“Missy!”

“Aahhh Dillon!”

As Dillon entered, he saw Missy lying on the birthing bed, legs up in the stirrups, the doctor and nurses he had hired attending to her. He quickly ran to her side, grabbed her hand and kissed her forehead softly.

“Honey, I’m here, just breathe.”

As she proceeded to do her Lamaze breathing, Dillon was there holding her hand, letting her squeeze it as hard as she could. He looked down at the doctor who was working frantically to deliver his son, the look on the doctor’s face startled him.

“Nurse! I need your assistance STAT.”

“Doc what’s happening?”

“Mr. Jones, please step back. There are some complications.”

“Dillon, what’s happening?”

“Missy.”

“Mr. Jones, please step back. Nurse, get him back.”

One of the nurses pushed Dillon toward the back corner of the room, where watched in uncertainty. While he didn’t really know what was happening, he could tell from the movements of the doctor and nurses that it wasn’t good.

“Here he comes! Nurse, give me the forceps.”

From his corner, Dillon watched as his son came sliding from Missy’s womb. There was much more blood than he had expected. He noticed there was no crying from his son as the doctor handed him to one of the nurses.

“Nurse, quickly.”

“Doc what’s going on? Why isn’t he crying?”

Dillon looked at Missy who was silent and motionless. He rushed toward her only to be stopped by a nurse.

“Mr. Smith please step back.”

“What’s happening?”

The nursed backed him up toward the corner again.

“Mr. Jones, I don’t know how to tell you this but your son was stillborn and your wife is hemorrhaging. The doctor is doing everything he can to save her.”

Dillon’s heart dropped. He didn’t understand the news. His son was dead and now he could lose Missy -- the one bright spot in his dark and twisted life. He lost all control and pushed his way past the nurse to be by her side. He grabbed her limp hand and kissed her on the forehead again.

“Mr. Jones, I am truly sorry, there was nothing I could do. She was hemorrhaging uncontrollably.”

Tears started to flow down Dillon’s face. He held Missy’s lifeless body in his arms.

“Where is my son?”

“Mr. Jones I am so sorry…..”

“I said where is my son? I want to see my son.”

The doctor turned to find the nurse who’d taken him was nowhere to be found.

Dillon looked up at the doctor, whose face was in shock, when he heard a car drive away. The rage within him erupted as it never had before. He let Missy’s lifeless body fall back onto the birthing table and reached behind his back for the only thing that had never let him down, his gun.

“Mr. Jones, it wasn’t my fault! Mr. Jones … “

“Jose, pour me another drink.”

“Senor Jones, don’t you think you have had enough?”

Dillon glared at Jose, and placed his gun on the bar.

“No, Jose, I don’t think I have.”