AS WE MAKE our way up First Avenue, a squad of TinGrins races past us toward the river. Maybe they heard the explosion. Maybe they think it’s some kind of uprising or sabotage. Nobody would believe the truth. When I turn around, I can still see the column of thick dark gray smoke against the blue sky. Nobody’s talking. Not Lamont. Not Margo. Not me. There’s nothing to say.
We see another patrol heading our way, just ahead. Too close. Before they can spot us, Lamont shoves open a door to an old office building. We follow him in. The stench in the lobby is terrible. There are dirty blankets and clothes all over the floor. It looks like about a hundred people slept here last night. The lobby is fancy, or at least it used to be. Lots of marble columns and carved woodwork. An old insurance building maybe, or a bank.
At the far corner of the lobby, I see a group of women kneeling in a circle on the floor. They turn to look at us, scared. Maybe because we’re all in black. Lamont holds his hands up.
“We’re not government,” he says. “We just need to get off the street for a minute.”
From the center of the circle, I hear a woman scream. Margo heads right over, stepping her way through all the abandoned stuff on the floor. I follow with Lamont.
In the center of the circle is a girl. A teenager. Probably younger than me. She’s lying on her back on a pile of old blankets and papers. Her knees are bent up and her middle is covered with a thin sheet. Her belly is huge. She screams again.
“How long has she been in labor?” asks Margo.
One of the women in the circle looks up. “Since last night.”
“She’s worn out,” says another woman.
The girl lets out another scream. It echoes around the lobby. The girl looks exhausted and terrified. So do all the women around her.
“She needs a doctor,” says Lamont.
“Can’t move her now,” says a woman in a red scarf who is kneeling at the girl’s feet. She lifts the sheet draped over the girl’s legs and peeks her head under. “She’s crowning.”
“I can’t do it!” the girl yells. Her face is all contorted and red. Her hair is matted down with sweat. Margo leans down right next to her and wipes her hair back from her face.
“Yes, you can,” she says.
The girl bites her lip and shakes her head. She doesn’t believe it. Then she leans back and screams again.
Margo turns to me and Lamont.
“Kneel behind her,” she says. “Support her shoulders.”
Lamont takes the girl’s left side. I take the right. Her shirt is drenched in sweat. I can feel her bony arm and shoulder blade through the wet cloth.
“What’s your name?” asks Margo.
“Ava,” says the girl.
“Hi, Ava. I’m Margo. And you’re about to have your baby.”
Margo squats near Ava’s heels. She looks at the woman with the red scarf. The woman’s eyes are red and her face is almost gray.
“How long since you’ve slept?” Margo asks.
“A while,” says the woman. “She came in from the street yesterday afternoon. Didn’t know anybody. Her water broke last night about eight. Been with her the whole time.”
“Sit back for a minute,” Margo tells the woman. “Rest.”
The scarf woman nods. She slides over against the wall a few feet away and leans her head back against the marble. Ava screams again. Margo moves between her knees and lifts the sheet. Ava bends forward at the waist, trying a new position to relieve the pain. Her shirt is so slick she almost slips out of my grip. She leans her head back toward the ceiling and screams again—so loudly it echoes around the lobby.
“Push, Ava!” says Margo. “You have to push. You have to push now!”
“I can’t,” says Ava. She’s sobbing and trembling. Her eyes are shut tight and tears are squeezing out. “I can’t anymore.” The last word trails off like she’s passing out, or dying. Some of the other women are starting to panic. I can see it in their faces. My heart is pounding and my mouth is really dry. I look down at Margo. She’s totally calm. She leans forward across Ava’s belly and looks into her face. She claps her hands together once, real loud. Ava’s eyes pop open wide again.
“Ava,” she says. “The next time you feel a contraction, don’t scream. Push.”
Ava is panting hard now, her mouth open, her chest heaving up and down. Lamont and I tighten our grips. Ava’s eyes roll back. She grits her teeth and lets out a noise that’s part moan, part growl. It goes on for a long time. Margo puts her hands back under the sheet.
“Good, Ava,” she says. “Once more. Just like that.”
Ava leans back. More panting. Margo wedges herself even tighter between Ava’s spread knees. Another grimace. Another howl. And then…
Another cry. A small one. From under the sheet.
Ava’s head drops back. Her neck is resting on my arm. I can feel her warm, wet hair through my sleeve. Margo lifts the baby up. It’s covered with blood and white gunk and there’s a thick purplish cord attached to its belly. And between the legs, a tiny bud—like a miniature acorn.
“It’s a boy,” I whisper into Ava’s ear. “You have a little boy.”
Ava’s crying full out now, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“He’s alive?” Ava asks, bending her head forward.
“He’s perfect,” says Margo.
Margo lifts the baby, cord and all, and lays him on Ava’s stomach, very gently. Now the other women are gathered around close, leaning in, making soft whispery sounds. One woman wipes the baby’s head. Another woman reaches into his mouth and pulls out a gross little wad of mucus. Ava reaches down to feel the baby’s wet scalp with her hand.
Lamont and I move aside as the woman in the red scarf moves back over. She lets Ava’s head rest in her lap and wipes the sweat off her forehead. Margo gets up slowly. Someone gives her an old shirt. She wipes the blood and goo off her hands. Lamont puts his arms around her and kisses the top of her head.
“What just happened?” asked Lamont.
“Well,” says Margo. “I think we just helped to birth a baby.”
“You were amazing,” he says. “Have you done that before?”
Margo leans in to Lamont, holding him close, shaking.
“No,” she says. “Not that I can remember.”