Karla’s labor lasted nine hours and several times Harold thought he heard her cry out, but he wasn’t sure. His mind was so fill of anxiety about the store he couldn’t think of anything else. He had no idea what he was going to do on Monday, without Karla there to help. He had not realized how indispensable she had become. He squirmed on the hard kitchen chair, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Mr. Bernhardt sipped a cup of coffee and the slurping sound made Harold wince.

Pastor Schwettmann’s niece hurried through the swinging door again, this time with a huge smile on her face.

“It won’t be long now, Mr. Matejowsky! We’re getting somewhere with this stubborn little babe.” She hefted the last pot of water off the stove and backed through the door, making her way back upstairs as fast as she could.

Mr. Bernhardt cleared his throat as if he was going to speak, but he didn’t say anything. Harold was thankful. He didn’t feel like talking.

Suddenly, the old house seemed to shake itself. The sound of the women’s feet upstairs was no longer deferential and cautious. They seemed to be running around and if Harold hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn there were more than six women in the room overhead. A small, weak cry pealed down the stairwell and Harold and Mr. Bernhardt stared at each other.

“IT’S A BOY, HAROLD! It’s a FINE boy! Come up here and have a look!” Mrs. Bernhardt’s booming voice shook the windowpanes.

When Harold walked into the bedroom, his first reaction was relief at seeing Karla appear completely normal. She was awake and looked a little bit tired but other than that, nothing appeared out of the ordinary to Harold. He looked all around the room.

“Well, where is it?” His voice sounded funny to his ears.

“Right here, Harold. I’ve got him covered up.” Karla lifted the covers next to her and Harold stared down at the tiniest face he had ever seen.”

To say Harold was shocked would be an understatement. He was completely unprepared for his emotional reaction. His knees almost gave way under him and would have, but Mrs. Bernhardt shoved a chair up behind him and he flopped down in it.

Harold could not speak for a long time and finally, his face drained of all color, he reached out a finger toward the face of his son. The baby’s blue eyes stared solemnly at his father. One of the tiny, wavering hands encountered the large finger and grabbed it with prehensile instinct, but Harold didn’t know that. He was convinced his son knew who he was, just by touching him.