The baby had decided to arrive.
And miles away, Alejandro saw the storm as opportunity.
He stole an old pickup truck and began climbing the muddy road, wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. When the vehicle got stuck near the property, he abandoned it and continued on foot, soaked instantly, face stung by cold rain.
Inside, María paced in pain, supported by her grandmother.
Outside, dogs began barking—not warning barks.
Attack barks.
Doña Soledad turned off the bedroom light and reached for an old shotgun—not even loaded, but imposing.
“It’s him,” María gasped, fear flashing for a second. “I feel it.”
Doña Soledad’s voice went steel. “You focus on giving birth. I’ll handle the rest.”
She radioed neighbors using the emergency code they had established months earlier. Sisterhood as security.
Alejandro reached the back door and slammed his shoulder into it.
“Open up!” he roared. “I’ve come for my child!”
The wood creaked under his blows.
María curled around her belly, breathing hard, trying not to let panic choke her labor.
Then flashlight beams cut through the rain.
Not police.
Women.
Neighbors. Peasant women. Mothers. Sisters.
They arrived with sticks, farming tools, shovels, stones—faces set with years of swallowed rage.
“Get out of here!” one shouted.
Alejandro turned and froze.
A dozen female shadows surrounded him, rain pouring off their hair like armor.
“Move!” he yelled, trying to intimidate them.
No one moved.
