I surfaced in waves of agony. The scent of disinfectants and stale concrete was the first thing that hit me, followed by a dull, throbbing ache that spanned from my temples to my pelvis. The movement and the blow had accelerated everything. I was past the point of practice; this was real labor.

I was lying on a thin, uncomfortable cot. The room was small, windowless, and poorly lit by a single fluorescent strip, a basement bunker, not a clinic.

Damon was seated on a metal folding chair beside ...