In the pitch black night, thunder cracked and lightning momentarily lit the sky. A small lantern swayed in the wind, illuminating a makeshift birthing place inside an old barn. Agathia strained again, screaming in agony. The labor had begun a half-day ago, and the baby was still inside her. Another thunderclap. Another momentary daylight. The sweat on her forehead looked like blood in the brief light of the electric sky. The cot that had been furnished for Agathia by the medicine man was soaked with sweat and blood. The medicine man himself was nowhere to be found, having retired an hour earlier. The only people with Agathia now was her baby and the midwife. Another scream, another thunderclap, another lightning strike. And suddenly, the baby’s head crowned! It was finally going to emerge from that uterine tomb. Agathia gripped the edge of the cot, splintering pieces of the wooden frame. As her fingers dug into the hard oak, the baby was forced further and further out.