As the only woman on a close-knit crew, I knew
my place on the rig. I quickly slid out the back
while sirens squealed and blinking red lights

hemorrhaged across a Walmart parking lot. The baby
crowned as I approached the passenger seat, where
his mother’s bare hands caught him. Wet and luminous,

his skin appeared petal-thin in her palms, almost
translucent, but a terrible shade of blue. The small
bruise of his body—silent and too still. My fingers

curled, clasping a suction bulb. The other hand rubbed
his small back, attempting to force a sound that signals
breath. Desperate urgency took hold of me. My spine

pulled bow-taut. The blood in me thrummed in time
with his answering wail, quick as rain kissing the eaves.