(1889: April 9)
He, curled unto himself, in the center of those contractions, he with his head dark with blood, hanging, held by the most tenuous thread: open to life, at last. Lunero held the arms of Isabel Cruz or Cruz Isabel, his sister; he closed his eyes so he wouldn't see what was happening between his sister's spread legs. He asked her, his face hidden, "Did you count the days?" And she couldn't answer because she was screaming, screaming behind closed lips, her teeth clenched-feeling that the head was coming out now, now it was coming, while Lunero held her up by the shoulders, only Lunero, with the pot boiling water on the fire, the knife, and the rags ready, and he was coming out between her legs, pushed out by the contractions of the womb, closer and closer together, and Lunero had to release the shoulders of Cruz Isabel, Isabel Cruz, kneel between her open legs, receive that moist black head, the sticky little body tied to Cruz Isabel, Isabel Cruz, the small body finally separated, received by Lunero's hands, now that the woman stopped moaning, breathed deeply, exhaled some foul breath, wiped the sweat off her face, looked for, looked for him, reached out her arms: Lunero cut the cord, tied up the end, washed the body, the face, held him close, kissed him, tried to give him to his sister, but Isabel Cruz, Cruz Isabel was moaning again in another contraction, and the boots were approaching the shack where the woman lay on the dirt floor under the palm roof, the boots were coming closer and Lunero turned the body face down, he slapped the baby so he would cry, cry as the boots came closer: he cried: he cried and began to live…