The Morning of the Race

The morning of the race was hot and humid. Old Dr. Pritchitt wiped sweat from his brow. He’d delivered so many babies, brought nearly every soul into the world for this rural county. Mary Strebbin smiled despite her pain, looking forward to a new life; she didn’t realize how new.

Hands shaking, a little with age, a little with a renewed trepidation Dr. Pritchitt reached forth and brought another life forth from the true cradle of civilization, quiet and serene but full of life. The child seemed to know, seemed to appreciate its nature.

The skin was olive, unlike the entire Strebbin clan’s pale, freckled features. The eyes were silver, veined with pink, twinkling and kind. The body was strong despite its small size.

Five births in as many weeks, and Dr. Pritchitt still wasn’t used to the startling appearance, always discordant from the parents. Reading about it in harried messages amongst professionals didn’t help. It was the dawn of a new age, the morning the race that would save or destroy us all.

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