Chapter 9 - The Mechanic’s Refuge
Clara dragged herself out from behind the mower, using the tractor's steel steering wheel to pull herself into a seated position against the workbench. The shed offered no clean linens, no sterile instruments, and no warmth. It was a utility shack built over bare dirt and oil stains, populated by spiders and rust.
She reached up to the workbench, knocking aside rusted boxes of drywall screws until her fingers found a stack of clean, blue shop towels still wrapped in their original cellophane packaging. Next to them sat a jug of distilled water used for refilling lead-acid batteries. She ripped the packaging open with her teeth, spreading the paper towels over a folded, canvas drop cloth on the floor.
Another contraction tore through her, longer and far more violent than the last. An overwhelming, primeval urge to push gripped her pelvis, locking her breath in her throat. ""Not on the dirt,"" she whispered between trembling lips, tears carving clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. ""Not for them. You live. We live.""
She stripped off her torn knit cardigan, balling it up to place behind her head against the wooden wall. With trembling, deliberate care, she took the paring knife and used the distilled water to rinse the blade, wiping it clean with a fresh towel. Her medical training from her early years as a surgical technician—knowledge Ethan and his mother had routinely mocked as middle-class trade work—returned to her with razor-sharp urgency.
May you like
She checked the time on an old wall clock mounted above the tool rack. It was three-fifteen in the afternoon. The guard would be at the front gatehouse for at least another forty-five minutes before his shift change.
Clara spread her knees, bracing her bare feet against the tractor's iron wheel rims. She leaned forward, hooked her arms beneath her thighs, and braced herself as the next wave crested, pushing with everything left in her breaking body.
