New York.
Samara was just ten years-old at the time of her mother’s death and her brother’s birth. She could remember being put to bed by their water while women she did not know piled into the room opposite hers. They were midwives dressed in long brown dresses with a white apron tied over it in the back. A white piece of fabric was wound around their heads, hiding their hair and making them appear more like nuns to Samara than midwives. Her bedroom door had been slightly cracked open, causing the candle light to pool into the dark room through the small sliver. The first moan of agony caused Samara to retreat into her worn white covers, her back to the door as she squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, having regarded the bump her mother had grown over the
