Kensei Jon's Arc

Chapter 25 of 49

The coin bought more than cloth. It bought a house. Kensei and Jeon-min moved from the rented rooms into a small home painted green and blue. It had two windows and a solid door. Inside they set the crib in the corner, the blanket folded on the rail, the tiny tunic hung on a peg. Jeon-min walked each room once, counting. "Enough space to cut cloth," he said. "Enough for the child." For the first time they owned the walls around them. That night Jeon-min stopped in the middle of the floor. He pressed a hand to his belly. "Something hurts," he said. He did not soften it. He never did. Kensei crossed to him fast. "Where?" "Low. Tight." Jeon-min breathed out through his teeth. His face went hard, the way it went when he counted a bad price. "It comes and stops. Comes again." Kensei had learned this from the midwife. He knew the words for it. He set one hand on Jeon-min's back. "How long between them?" "Short." Jeon-min gripped Kensei's arm. Then water ran down his legs and pooled on the new floor. He looked at it. He looked at Kensei. "The baby," he said. "Now." Kensei's chest seized. Then the fear let go, the way it had when he learned the tasks. He knew what to do. "I have you," he said. He put Jeon-min's arm over his shoulder and walked him to the door. "The midwife is close. We go." The street outside was dark. Jeon-min bent with each pain and stopped walking. Kensei held him up and moved him forward between them. He counted the gaps out loud, the way Jeon-min counted coins. Jeon-min swore at him once and gripped harder. Kensei did not stop counting. They reached the midwife's door. Kensei struck it flat with his palm. The midwife opened it, took one look at Jeon-min, and pulled them inside. She laid Jeon-min on the mat. "You," she told Kensei. "Water. Cloth. You know this." He did. He had practiced it with her. He set the water and brought the cloth and knelt by Jeon-min's head. Jeon-min labored through the night. Kensei held his hand and let him crush it. He wiped the sweat from his face. He said the count. Near dawn the midwife told Jeon-min to push, and Jeon-min pushed, teeth bared, silent. The baby cried. The midwife lifted it, wet and small, and laid it on Jeon-min's chest. Jeon-min stared at the child. His hard face broke. "A daughter," the midwife said. Kensei touched the baby's tiny hand. It closed around his finger. He looked at Jeon-min. Jeon-min looked back, spent and shaking. "She's here," Jeon-min said. "She's real." They had a house, a name, and now a daughter with no cloth cut for her, no work made, and a client waiting on his coat. But she was breathing. That part was done.