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It was a teaching hospital, Rochelle reminded herself. And the intern wasn’t much older than she herself was. Why else would a reasonable, educated person compare an overdue baby to a rotting apple? As the door closed behind the doctor, Rochelle sat stunned.

“I hope he chooses another discipline,” Jamie said. “He does not have the tact for obstetrics.”

“He was just being helpful,” Rochelle said as she pulled on her clothes, but she couldn’t get the image out of her head.

Two weeks overdue was the limit, he’d said. After that, the baby started to decompose in much the same way an overripe apple would.

“He wasn’t being helpful, Rochelle,” Jamie said. “He was being a man. Now, come on, let’s go set up that appointment. You have a daughter to meet.”

Rochelle expected a wait. When the appointment was settled for five o’clock the next morning, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. What woman could sleep knowing she had a rotting person in her womb?

At four-thirty the next morning, she was wide awake and waiting for Jamie to drag herself out of the shower. Jamie shuffled into the living room wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She’d combed her dark hair and left it to drip dry.

“This freaking hospital,” Jamie said, yawning. “Better come equipped with a full-service Starbucks. That’s all I’m saying.”