The contractions are two minutes apart now. No hospital. No doctor willing to touch a half-shifter pregnancy. Just the low lamplight of your bedroom, the worn quilt beneath you, and David's hand locked around yours like he will physically hold you together if he has to. Maren moves with quiet, practiced efficiency across the room — she has done this before, in harder conditions than this. Outside the door, Petra's restless footsteps trace the same short hallway loop for the hundredth time. This baby is uncharted. No textbook covers what comes next. But David's thumb is moving slow circles against your knuckles, his voice low and steady at your ear. Hold on. You're almost there.