Chapter 41 #3
Anna doesn’t even hesitate. She lets out a strangled scream and then pants, “Yes. Just— please —get it out!”
Sawyer puts on a pair of gloves, crouches low, and gently inserts his hand. Anna cries out, her whole body stiffening, and I press her hand tighter in mine.
“You’re doing great,” he says calmly. “You’re really close, Anna. If I had to make an estimate, I’d say you’re at about eight centimeters dilated.”
Anna sobs. “I can’t push. I’m too scared.”
“Yes, you can,” I whisper, leaning in closer. “You just need to give one strong push. Then you can rest. That’s it. Just one.”
“You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need to,” I add, immediately regretting it because she’s already squeezing like she has the strength of a hundred women.
Estelle leans in on Anna’s other side, sliding her hand into Anna’s free one. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. You’re strong. We’re right here.”
Anna nods, teeth gritted, and the next contraction builds—sharp and fast. Her whole body tightens as Sawyer braces himself and says, “Okay, Anna—when you’re ready, give me one strong push.”
Internally, I’m barely holding it together—but Estelle is rock solid. Calm and firm and steady, the way I think my mom would be if something like this had happened in front of her. She thrives in the mess. Loves a good crisis. I wish she were here. I wish she could see this.
But right now, I’m so glad Estelle is.
Sawyer gets it from her, I realize. The steady hands. The grounded voice. The way she knows exactly when to step in and when to hold back. There’s not a trace of panic in her expression. Just a quiet determination.
Anna’s hand clamps around mine again as the contraction rolls through her—longer and stronger than the last. Her scream cuts through the air, high and raw, echoing off the barn walls and making Winnie whimper from where she’s still tied to the beam behind us.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, even though I’m not sure who I’m talking to—Anna or myself or my dog. “You’re doing great.”
Sawyer leans forward, his hands steady and eyes focused. “I can see the head, Anna,” he says gently. “Baby’s got a lot of dark hair.”
Anna’s head rolls back against the saddle pad and for a second, just the briefest flicker of a smile crosses her face. “Really?” she breathes.
“Yes,” Sawyer says with a small smile. “You’re almost there. You’re doing fantastic.”
But her eyes close again, her chest rising and falling so fast. She looks completely wrung out.
Estelle reaches for the water bottle she brought in with the towels and unscrews the cap with one hand. “Anna, drink some water, baby.”
Anna lets go of Estelle’s hand just long enough to grab the bottle and take a few shaky sips. Some of it dribbles down her chin, but she doesn’t care. None of us do. She swallows, breath hitching, then leans back again.
Her hand finds mine blindly and latches on.
I squeeze back, hard. “You’re doing so good,” I whisper. “Just a little more. You’re almost there.”
But inside, my heart is racing. Sawyer shifts slightly, his voice calm but focused. “You’re really close, Anna. Only a couple more pushes, okay? You’re almost there.”
Anna nods, barely. She lets out a long, shaky breath, then bears down again with everything she has, her scream sharp and raw. Her hands fly down, instinctively reaching toward where the baby is about to emerge.
“It hurts —oh my God—it hurts —” she cries, her legs tensing, her heels digging into the blanket.
Estelle is quick with the cool cloth again, pressing it gently to Anna’s forehead. “You’re doing a great job. You’re almost there. Just keep going.”
But something in Sawyer shifts. It’s small—barely a flicker—but I catch it. His mouth tightens into a flat line.
I know that look. Something’s wrong.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper, gently pulling my hand from Anna’s. “I’m just going to go help Sawyer for a second.”
“No—don’t leave me—” she gasps, reaching out blindly.
“I’m not leaving, I promise. I’m just going to be right down there, okay? I’ll come right back. Estelle’s still here. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
I move quickly, ducking down beside Sawyer—and immediately see it.
Oh God.
The baby’s head is out, wet and slick and matted with dark hair. But just beneath the jaw, circling tightly around the neck, is a thick, purplish cord. The umbilical cord. It’s wrapped around once, maybe even twice. It looks tight.
Too tight.
There’s no blood, not yet. But the color of the cord—it’s wrong. Too dark. And the baby’s face is bluish, tinged around the mouth and nose, its features scrunched but not moving. Not yet.
I feel like I might pass out.
But Sawyer’s already in motion, calm and quick.
“Double loop,” he says under his breath, more to himself than to me. “It’s a tight one.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His gloved fingers work gently but precisely, reaching behind the baby’s head to try and slip the first loop over. It’s snug. Too snug to pull without risk.
He leans back slightly, keeps one hand supporting the baby’s head while the other reaches into his bag for a clamp.
“It’s got a nuchal cord,” he says up to Anna. His voice is steady. Even. “That just means the cord’s around the baby’s neck, but I’m going to take care of it, alright Anna?”
Anna doesn’t answer. She’s panting, moaning, almost too far gone to register.
Sawyer gets the clamp in place, tight and clean, then snips the cord with one smooth motion—quick and efficient. His hands don’t even shake.
“Anna,” he calls gently, but firmly. “On this next contraction, I need you to give me everything you’ve got. One big, big push. We have to get this baby out right now. Can you do that?”
She whimpers something that sounds like a yes.
“You’re doing so good,” he says. “This baby is ready. We just need one more.”
And I kneel there beside him, heart in my throat, watching the baby’s tiny head cradled in his hands, and praying— please let this next push be it.
I scurry back up to Anna, grab her hand again, and squeeze it hard. “You can do this,” I say, breathless. “You’re strong enough to do this, Anna. Just one more. Deep breath, okay? And push with everything.”
Estelle is still beside her, calm and steady, gently blotting her face with the cool cloth. “You’re almost there, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “You’re doing so good.”
Anna nods weakly, then inhales—deep, ragged, desperate—and pushes like her life depends on it.
She screams, loud and primal, her whole body curling around the pain. It’s not even a sound, not really—it’s something deeper. Animal. Ancient. A sob and a scream wrapped in exhaustion. Her face flushes dark, the color of a plum, and her chest heaves, soaked with sweat.
I can’t see anything from up here but Sawyer’s hands moving, fast and focused. My own heart is a wreck, my stomach twisted so tight it hurts. I just keep thinking— Please be okay. Please let Anna be okay. Let the baby be okay.
Then I hear Sawyer’s voice from below, soft but sure: “That’s it…that’s it.”
And then: “It’s a girl!”
Anna’s head rolls to the side. “A girl?” she whispers, smiling through her tears, her lips trembling. “I have a girl?”
I kiss her damp forehead once, gently, then move back down to where Sawyer is kneeling.
And there she is.
Tiny. Purple. Curled in on herself like she’s still trying to stay inside.
Her arms are tucked in close to her chest, her little legs pulled up.
A faint layer of white vernix still clings to her skin.
She’s slick with birth and blood and fluid.
Her dark hair is matted to her head, and her eyes are shut tight.
She’s beautiful.
But she’s not crying.
Sawyer’s jaw is tight, but he doesn’t hesitate. He clears the cord remnants from around her, double-checks her nose and mouth, and then gently cups her face and back with both hands, rubbing in quick, circular motions.
Nothing.
“Why isn’t she crying?” I whisper, my voice tight.
Sawyer doesn’t answer. His focus is surgical.
He leans in, clears her mouth again with his finger, then tilts her slightly, rubbing harder this time, brisk and controlled. One hand cups her back. The other taps her feet gently.
Still nothing.
My chest is caving in. The barn is too quiet.
Then—
She lets out the tiniest cough. A sputter.
And then the sound tears out of her—sharp and sudden, like it was caught behind a wall and finally broke free.
A cry.
Strong. Loud. Alive.
And it is the most glorious sound I’ve ever heard.
Sawyer exhales, slow and deep, like he’d been holding his breath through all of it, too. He gently wraps the baby in a towel from the stack and brings her to Anna, laying her tiny body on her mother’s chest. “She’s okay. She’s just fine.”
And then Anna’s sobbing, full-body sobs that shake her shoulders as she cradles her daughter, whispering hi and oh my God and you’re here over and over.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to get my heart to slow down.
She’s here.
And she’s okay.
The barn doors creak open again, and I look up just in time to see Crew jog in, out of breath but grinning like someone who brought the fire extinguisher after the fire’s already out.
“Ambulance is here,” he says, holding his hands up like a ta-da. “Figured we were gonna need it at some point.”
Behind him, two paramedics step into the barn, their boots crunching on the hay-dusted concrete. One is older, with salt-and-pepper hair. The other’s younger, barely older than me, wearing blue gloves and scanning the scene with wide, focused eyes.
Crew gestures behind him. “Are they good to come in?”
Sawyer nods, still crouched near Anna but shifting back slightly to give them room. Then he glances over at me and reaches out, finding my hand. His fingers thread through mine and squeeze, firm and warm and grounding.
I squeeze back, barely able to believe it’s over.
Anna’s still cradling the baby to her chest, Estelle cooing softly beside her, one hand resting gently on Anna’s shoulder. They’re both crying now, but smiling too, a tangled mess of relief and awe.
“She did amazing,” Estelle says quietly, her eyes flicking between Anna and the baby.
The older paramedic crouches beside Sawyer, opening his kit. “You the one who delivered?”
Sawyer nods once.
The guy offers a faint smile. “You did a damn good job.”
Sawyer gives a short, modest shrug. “I’ve delivered a lot of calves. This was…a little different.”
“Still,” the paramedic says, “No respiratory distress, good skin tone—whatever you did, it worked.”
He turns his attention to Anna, and suddenly the barn is moving again, everyone back in motion.
The younger paramedic starts checking vitals, slipping a blood pressure cuff around Anna’s arm and monitoring her heart rate. The older one assesses the baby—listens to her breathing with a stethoscope, checks her reflexes, shines a small light into her eyes, all with careful, practiced movements.
They ask Anna a handful of questions: how far along she was, how long she’d been contracting, if she’d had any complications during pregnancy.
Sawyer answers some of them when Anna can’t, listing everything he saw: the estimated time of crowning, the nuchal cord, when he clamped and cut it, the APGAR signs at birth.
The baby lets out a few more cries, her voice thin and raspy but strong enough to make everyone collectively relax a little more.
They start prepping Anna for transport, carefully moving her onto a stretcher with warm blankets and towels tucked around her and the baby still lying against her chest.
I step back, my hand still in Sawyer’s, as everything swirls around us again—boots moving, gear clattering, someone radioing the hospital, Estelle giving instructions on what to grab from the house.
And I just stand there, a little stunned, watching the girl who came into the barn screaming and terrified now holding her daughter like she was made to do this.
They wheel Anna toward the barn doors, wrapped in flannel blankets and the faintest halo of steam from the paramedics’ breath as they talk into radios and secure the straps. The baby’s still on her chest, tucked against her.
But just as they reach the threshold, Anna lifts her head, her eyes locking onto mine.
“Wren,” she says, her voice hoarse but urgent.
I step closer. “Yeah?”
She reaches out and grabs my hand with a surprising strength. “Come with me.”
“What?”
“To the hospital.” Her voice cracks. “I don’t want to be there by myself and it’s going to take my parents a couple hours to get there.”
I glance at Sawyer on instinct, like my body doesn’t know how to make a decision without him anymore. He’s standing behind the stretcher, eyes already on me. He doesn’t hesitate—just gives a small, quiet nod and mouths, Go.
My heart swells, sharp and warm all at once. I nod back.
Anna turns to the paramedics. “She’s my best friend. I don’t have anyone else here.”
The older paramedic glances at me, assessing. “You her emergency contact?”
“One of them,” Anna says. “She’s someone I’d call first.”
He nods once. “Climb in.”
So I do.
They help me up into the back, and I slide onto the narrow bench beside Anna. It smells like antiseptic and metal and something sterile underneath it all, and my jeans are damp from kneeling in hay and melted snow, but I don’t care. I’m here. That’s what matters.
As we pull away from the barn, the siren stays off—no rush now. The baby is quiet, her eyes still shut, her cheeks flushed a pale pink against the blanket swaddling her.
Anna’s head tilts down, watching her daughter like she can’t believe she’s real.
I watch her watching her, and something inside me twists.
I want to feel only happy. That’s what I want. For Anna, for the baby, for this tiny miracle that just came out of a freezing barn floor and a tangle of fear and sweat and screaming.
But my throat tightens, and my eyes sting, and I know myself too well to pretend it’s just joy.
There’s grief here, too.
Not bitter, but just here. Heavy in the background. Because I want this, too. I’ve always wanted this. And maybe I won’t have it—not in this way, not in the way Anna does now, not in the way I used to dream about.
But I’ve learned that both things can be true. I can hold her hand and feel her joy and mean it. I can be proud of her and awed by her and want every good thing in the world for her.
And still— still —there can be a piece of me that aches.
Both things can live inside me without canceling each other out.
They just sit beside each other. Like me and Anna. Quiet and breathing and holding on.