Page 121 of Under Southern Stars
“We might not have twenty minutes,” I say quietly to Jack. “Hannah, we need to check your progress. Is that okay?”
She nods desperately, gripping her friend’s hand.
The crew clears the lower cabin, directing other passengers upstairs. Madison pushes forward, ignoring Emma’s attempt to guide her away.
“I want to help,” she insists, her eyes wide with a mixture of concern and curiosity. “What can I do?”
“Madison, honey, this isn’t—” I begin, but am cut off by Hannah’s sudden cry as another contraction hits.
“Jack, see if they have any medical supplies on board,” I direct, falling into our familiar pattern without thinking. “And we need clean towels, blankets, anything you can find.”
He nods, immediately moving to action. I turn my attention to Hannah, helping her into a more comfortable position as I assess her situation.
Emma tries again to guide Madison away. “Come on, let’s give them space to work.”
“But I want to see,” Madison protests. “Maybe I could help somehow.”
Jack returns moments later with a basic first aid kit and an armful of clean linens. “Not much,” he says grimly, “but it’s something.” He rummages through the kit, examining its contents with a practiced eye.
As I examine Hannah, my worst fears are confirmed. “Baby’s crowning,” I say quietly to Jack. “This is happening now.”
He nods, already arranging the supplies we have. “Hannah,” he says calmly, “your baby is coming very quickly. We’re going to deliver right here. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Madison has positioned herself where she can see, despite Emma’s protective hand on her shoulder. Her face is a mix of fascination and growing apprehension as she realizes what is about to happen.
“On the next contraction, I need you to push,” I instruct Hannah.
The next moments blur into a focused intensity. Hannah pushes with primal determination. Jack supports her while I guide the baby’s head, our hands working in perfect coordination despite the months of distance and days of tension.
“I can see the head,” I announce. “You’re doing so great, Hannah. One more big push.”
Madison’s face has paled considerably, her earlier curiosity replaced with shock at the reality of childbirth. Emma notices immediately. “Madison, honey, let’s step outside—”
“I’m fine, I just—” Madison starts, then suddenly claps a hand over her mouth, her face turning a sickly shade of green.
Emma reacts instantly, pulling Madison away just as she doubles over and retches. “Oooookay, that’s our cue to exit,” she says firmly, guiding Madison quickly toward the door.
The moment turns critical when I realize the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck. Without a word, Jack reaches for the meager supplies we had, ready with exactly what I needed before I could ask.
“Cord’s around the neck,” I say quietly, our heads close together over our patient.
“Can you slip it over?” he asks, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Going to try.”
Our hands work together in the tight space, his steadying Hannah while mine carefully maneuvers the cord. For those critical moments, there is no wealth disparity, no betrayal, no hurt. Just two medical professionals working to bring a life safely into the world.
With a final push from Hannah and careful guidance from me, the baby slips free. A boy, small but perfect…but alarmingly silent.
“He’s not crying,” Hannah says, panic rising in her voice. “Why isn’t he crying!?”
Jack is already moving, grabbing what looks like a saline squeeze bottle from the first aid kit. In one smooth motion, he empties the saline, cuts off the narrow tip with a pair of scissors from the kit, and creates a makeshift bulb syringe. The improvisation is quick, efficient—testament to years of emergency field work.
“He needs a little help clearing his airway,” Jack explains calmly to Hannah, his tone completely reassuring despite the urgency of the situation. “This happens sometimes with fast deliveries.”
I hold the newborn, slightly inclined, while Jack works rapidly, using his improvised suction to clear the baby’s mouth and nose. The close quarters force us together, his body pressed against mine as we hunch over the infant. I can feel his heartbeat, rapid with adrenaline, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Come on, little one,” he murmurs, his hands gentle but sure.
