The feeling was at once universal—an animal instinct she knew she shared with all things—and singular. It was the urgent thought that she must deliver this baby that, through Mercy, carried her own blood inside it. Mary Grace started rubbing Mercy’s back again, more insistently this time. Rachel spoke to the rhythm of Mary Grace’s hands. “Breathe, Mercy. Breathe and push.” Mercy’s whimpering was punctuated by howls of pain, but the howls, the hands and Rachel’s gentle commands all pulsed together. They worked as one to bring the baby forth. The noises Mercy made grew deeper, more guttural.
