The old midwife sat beside Mother, wiping her head with a wet cloth. She was glad Lao Chan had left her the sampan in case Mother went into labor, because Chai had used it to row to the mainland to get the old woman early that morning, right after he and the boys had left for work. Ironically, the baby had come almost a year to the day that Chai and Josi had been brought to the fishing village. Its birth marked their anniversary of being abducted, a sign that Chai didn’t know whether to take as bad luck or a good sign for her future. Mother moaned, oblivious to anything going on around her. After only five hours of pushing, she had given birth, but she was still weak. On the floor beside her bed was a basket. Chai could hear the infant mewling softly from inside. She saw a tiny fist make an arc above the edge, but nothing else. Next to the basket was a huge pile of bloodied rags, making Chai feel faint as she studied them. The midwife heard her and muttered some orders. “You! Go to the mainland and find the ingredients to make lóng yăn shuĭ yú tāng.
