Dorothy lowered her cheek to the brown fuzz of Helen's head; the
baby's absurd square of palm found Paul's finger. Helen was almost
eight months old--Lucifer months. The new life in Dorothy had been
conceived in the last month of the rains. Dorothy said, "I'm going,
Nancy, with Helen. As a valuable brood mare, I can't afford heroism.
Neither can you."
The giant women crossed the bridge; they had lingered outside, knowing
the Charins needed to talk alone. Ann said, "I've heard the argument.
I'm not pregnant yet. I've learned to shoot damn' well."