The pickup’s cab smelled of coffee and old leather, and the man behind the wheel introduced himself as Walt Brennan, a retired army medic who lived on the ranch past the last mailbox. He drove with one hand and dialed 911 with the other, but the nearest ambulance was thirty minutes out. I recited my uncle Raymond’s number from memory, because Marcus had kept my phone, and Walt left a steady message while I counted my breaths.

Then the pain changed. It stopped rolling and began bearing down, a pressure so absolute that I gasped. I was a labor nurse, and I knew exactly what it meant. “Walt,” I whispered, “the baby is coming now.” He swerved onto the shoulder, killed the engine, and pulled a blanket from behind the seat. “Then look at me, ma’am,” he said. “We’re delivering this child right here.”