The scorching temperatures confirmed it—the dying weeks of the dry season; everything bleached and crunchy, wildlife lean, water-sources scarce; the land beneath her feet gasping, with air hot and dry enough to suck the moisture right out of your eyeballs. A terrible time for a little girl to turn five. But at least Molly had made it that far. ‘Happy birthday, chicken.’ Lea shook Molly awake an hour earlier than her usual seven a.m. waking-time, but it would give her enough time outdoors with Reilly before they had to retreat indoors from the heat for the first of Molly’s three therapeutic naps of the day. It was Reilly’s third monthly access visit; three-and-a-half months since she’d been impregnated with his child. With Molly’s stem cells. Lea rubbed her hand down her belly, looking for signs of development. If not for the ongoing nausea and test results, she wouldn’t really believe she was pregnant at all. Five years and many months ago, she’d paid exhaustive attention to every change in her body, every twinge in her belly as the extraordinary miracle of pregnancy had unfolded.
