Werewolves in Their Youth by Michael Chabon

contractions, eyes shut, head rolled back, brow luminous with pain and concentration like the brow of Christ in a Crucifixion scene.
    The nurse had lost interest in Richard and the camera question. She had hold of one of Cara’s hands in one of hers, and was stroking Cara’s hair with the other. Their faces were close together, and the nurse was whispering something. Cara nodded, and bit her lip, and barked out an angry laugh. Richard stood there. He felt he ought to be helping Cara, but the nurse seemed to have everything under control. There was nothing for him to do and no room beside the bed.
    “I’ll be right back,” he said.
    He got lost on his way down to the second floor, and then when he reached two he got lost again trying to find the vending machine. It stood humming in a corridor outside the cafeteria, beside the men’s room. Within its tall panel of glass doors, a carousel rotated when you pressed a button. It was well stocked with toiletry and sanitary items, along with a few games and novelties for bored children. There was one camera left. Richard fed a twenty-dollar bill into the machine and received no change.
    When he got back to the room he stood with his fingers on the door handle. It was cold and dry and gave him a static shock when he grasped it. Through the door he heard Cara say, “Fuck,” with a calmness that frightened him. He let go of the handle.
    There was a squeaking of rubber soles, rapid and intent. Dorothy Pendleton was hurrying along the corridor toward him. She had pulled a set of rose surgical scrubs over her street clothes. They fit her badly across the chest and one laundry-marked shirttail dangled free of the waistband. As Dorothy hurried toward him she was pinning her hair up behind her head, scattering bobby pins as she came.
    “You did it,” she said. “Good for you.”
    Richard was surprised to find that he was glad to see Dorothy. She looked intent but not flustered, rosy-cheeked, wide-awake. She gave off a pleasant smell of sugary coffee. Over one shoulder she carried a big leather sack covered in a worn patchwork of scraps of old kilims. He noticed, wedged in among the tubes of jojoba oil and the medical instruments, a rolled copy of Racing Form.
    “Yeah, well, I’m just glad, you know, that my sperm finally came in handy for something,” he said.
    She nodded, then leaned into the door. “Good sperm,” she said. She could see that he needed something from her, a word of wisdom from the midwife, a pair of hands to yank him breech first and hypoxic back into the dazzle and clamor of the world. But she had already wasted enough of her attention on him, and she reached for the handle of the door.
    Then she noticed the twenty-dollar cardboard camera dangling from his hand. For some reason it touched her that he had found himself a camera to hide behind.
    She stopped. She looked at him. She put a finger to his chest. “My father was a sheriff in Bowie County, Texas,” she said.
    He took a step backward, gazing down at the finger. Then he looked up again.
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning get your ass into that room, deputy.” She pushed open the door.
    The first thing they heard was the rapid beating of the baby’s heart through the fetal monitor. It filled the room with its simple news, echoing like a hammer on tin.
    “You’re just in time,” said the labor nurse. “It’s crowning.”
    “Dorothy. Richie.” Cara’s head lolled toward them, her cheeks streaked with tears and damp locks of hair, her eyes red, her face swollen and bruised looking. It was the face she had worn after the attack at Lake Hollywood, dazed with pain, seeking out his eyes. “Where did you go?” she asked him. She sounded angry. “Where did you go?”
    Sheepishly he held up the camera.
    “Jesus! Don’t go away again!”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. A dark circle of hair had appeared between her legs, surrounded by the fiery pink ring of her straining labia. “I’m sorry!”
    “Get him