I scream.

The baby is coming—quickly, if I had to guess.

Another contraction.

Another scream.

There’s a pounding sound from the front of the cabin now, and the door flies open.

A man bursts into the room.

I almost think I’m hallucinating him from my position on the floor.

“I heard screaming,” John says, rushing over to me. “Did you fall?”

Did I hit my head? I blink, but he’s still there, inches away, concern in his gaze.

“No. I think I’m in labor.” The pain is too great for me to muster up any embarrassment. “I woke and my water had broken.” I take a deep breath, trying to steady the panic within me. “It’s too early. The baby isn’t due for a few weeks.”

“Babies come when they’re ready, unfortunately. How close are the contractions?”

I wince. “Close. What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I went by your aunt’s inn searching for you. She asked me to check on you. She’s coming over as soon as she can. She’s making sure her guests are safe. The storm’s coming; they’re boarding up the inn.”

The pain subsides slightly as the contraction recedes.

“I heard noises earlier, saw some debris go by the house. Is the wind really that bad?” I ask.

“The wind has kicked up considerably since I left the inn. Rain’s coming down harder, too. Some of the roads will be washed out soon if they haven’t been already.”

“Everybody thought the hurricane was going to miss us.”

“I don’t know anything about predicting hurricanes, but someone got it wrong,” he replies, his voice grim.

I can only focus on one crisis at a time. I’ve lived through my share of storms, so at the moment giving birth is the more fearsome thing. What if there’s a complication? What if something’s wrong with the baby? There’s no doctor to call, no midwife to come to my aid, no female friends or family to have by my side. I’d always planned on having the baby at home, but I didn’t envision being in such unfamiliar surroundings, in the middle of a hurricane.

“I told your aunt I’d take you back to the Sunrise Inn, but it’s bad out there. If the baby is this close, the last thing you want is to be stranded on the road in the hurricane. It’s best if we take shelter here until the storm passes.” John glances around the cabin. “Let me get some hot water. Some towels. I’ll clean off the sheets and we’ll get you back in bed.”

Another contraction hits, stronger than the last, the pain carrying me away. John kneels beside me, rubbing my back, his tone soothing, his words barely audible above the white noise rushing through my ears.

He sees me through the contraction, and the next, leaving me in the pauses between to gather supplies, to slip the soiled sheets from the bed. He moves with a surprising amount of calm, his movements quick and sure—confident, even.

Perhaps war prepares you for all manner of things.

In the time since John arrived, the weather has grown much worse. The shutters on the cottage are battened down, the sound of some unknown object hitting the house at random intervals.

Each time it does, John flinches.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

He nods, his lips in a tight line, his face pale.

John helps me lie back on the bed, a clean sheet he found in the cabin’s armoire beneath me.

“Do you have much experience delivering babies?” I joke during the ever-narrowing space between contractions, trying to distract him from the growing storm outside.

“Much? No. I went to war right after I graduated medical school.”

I blink. “You’re a doctor?”

“I was a doctor.”

Of all the answers I expected, that wasn’t one of them.

“You’re surprised by that?” he asks.

“Perhaps. Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“Because I was a doctor. Before and during the war. I haven’t been one for a long time. When I came home from France, I tried to resume my practice, but it was too difficult. The blood, the memories. I would freeze in the operating room, my hands shook—” He swallows. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Is that why you went to the Sunrise Inn?” I ask. “Because you thought I might need help with the baby?”

“I was worried about you. They were talking about the hurricane in the camp today. They’re going to run a special train to Islamorada to evacuate the men.”

“You should have gone with them. Should have gotten on that train.”

“I’m right where I’m supposed to be. How’s the pain?”

“Not too bad,” I lie.

“I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. You and the baby are going to be fine.”

I’m too scared to voice the fears inside me. When you’ve experienced a loss, it’s impossible to forget, to wholly ignore that little voice in your head that says that it can happen again. I’m not sure I’ll relax until the baby is in my arms, and even then—

I take John’s hand, squeezing as the next contraction hits, no longer able to talk through the pain. I am reduced to a haze around me, John beside me, holding on to me, his fingers trembling when the noises outside the cabin grow louder.

My body is no longer my own, and any embarrassment I might have over a near stranger, a man, seeing me in such a state is obliterated.

With each contraction, each passing moment, I change from the person I was to someone new, someone I barely recognize.

The delivery happens so quickly, the baby coming whether I am ready or not. The wind howls outside, the house quavers, and my surroundings simply disappear. John is somewhere down between my legs, his voice soothing, urgent, and then he vanishes, too, and I am alone, pushing, pushing—

A baby cries.

Twenty

Elizabeth

We face off in Sam’s room at the inn, papers strewn on the ground, photographs of me—walking on the streets of New York, old pictures from newspaper clippings, photos that once graced frames in my parents’ home.

“You’ve been lying to me all along,” I accuse.

“No—I—not everything was a lie.”

“Fine. Then start from the beginning. Who are you, really?”

“My name is Sam Watson. Just like I told you. I work for the government. None of that was a lie. The badge is real. I catch people. Criminals. Sometimes I infiltrate their organization, go undercover, make myself indispensable to them. It’s the easiest way to get close to them, to get them to trust you.”