The doctor finally told Darla’s mother that her daughter, only 9 years of age, had had her menses. Her mother was so embarrassed and ashamed, she drank a little extra for two days.

It was the boyfriend who was traumatized. He took on the task of taking Darla to all of her surgeries, all of her reconstructions, visiting her in rehab and teaching her how to clean and replace her glass eye and dentures.

I stepped aside and let Darla pull the baby out of the bag. After she had it in her arms, I realized it was a baby boy. A boy Darla named Ruth. Ruth wasn’t blue-green from suffocating, he was very sick, his intestines pulsed on the outside of his abdomen, exposed to the world; a baby born without secrets. And he was still alive.

“See, he’s not ripe yet, his stomach isn’t done yet, he’s not finished growing.”

“Darla, I know a way we can get him to ripen faster, there’s a farmer that has a machine that can do it for you. How about if I take Baby Ruth and see if the farmer up the road can fix him?”