"She's crying—she's here!" Blake barreled through the curtain and slapped his palms on the table.
"Bring a bowl," Ivan shouted. "And the hot water!"
"Clear the floor!" Cael shoved past, knocking over a wooden stool.
Veronica's voice cut through the chaos. "Bear, hold her head steady. Blake, now!"
Blake fumbled with the swaddling, hands clumsy with excitement. The baby howled, then hiccupped, then made that small, fierce protesting sound that pulled every man's face straight into something like awe.
"Look—what is that?" Blake dropped his hand and pointed at the rafters. "Like town lanterns."
Outside, a cluster of birds passed low over the yard, their wings bright against the dusk. They weren't ordinary sparrows. Colors flashed—red, blue, a yellow feather that caught the sun and glittered.
Bear laughed sharp and loud. "It's a sign. God finally listens to me."
"He better," Veronica said, breath loud, and pushed a damp cloth to the baby's cheek. "She's warm. She's breathing."
"Don't you dare faint," Bear barked. "Someone get the shawl. And someone close that damn curtain before the whole damn lane starts watching."
They worked in short, clipped sentences. No one paused to explain meaning. They moved.
"Name her," Ivan said, stepping back to look. "I'm tired of waiting."
"Not until I see the color of her eyes," Bear said.
"She has eyes already," Cael argued. "They're dark."
"Dark or bright, this one's mine to call
