Everest’s skin feels awfully clammy, and Eileen begins to wonder if something is seriously wrong with her. Eileen is never one to question a nurse’s expertise, but she’ll take her daughter’s word over theirs any day of the week. Everest doesn’t complain unless something’s wrong with her, so Eileen always knows: if Everest says it’s bad, it’s bad. “Are you feelin’ sick?” Eileen asks, dabbing Everest’s forehead with her fingertips. Her daughter swallows hard and lies perfectly still. “Mm-mm,” she says in her throat. Eileen offers her a cup of ice chips, but Everest shakes her head again, and that hard line gathers between her brows again. Her next breaths come quickly, and in moments, she’s sobbing again and pulling at the bedrails with all the strength in her thin arms. A growl borne of unbearable pain tears from her throat. Her eyes widen in disbelief, then search beseechingly to the ceiling and beyond. Eileen sees a prayer on her daughter’s lips. If it weren’t for the nature of the pain, Eileen could not stay on to witness her daughter in the throes of agony. The baby is on its way, and there is not a thing in the world--not flood or fire or war--that will stop it. At this moment, a mother’s love is pathetically ineffective. She can no more take from Everest the white hot pain in her belly than she can the event that put it there. This is not an unforeseen fate. It’s mouth gapes. It’s steamy breath envelopes. It will come to pass, and it will rip through Everest as it does. Everest screams again, and as Eileen squeezes her hand into the crushing fist of her daughter’s, her strength gives, and Eileen’s sobs join those of Everest. Too recently. Too recently passed, when Eileen’s prayer went up in the same way, but her sobs were raw and solitary.