Turbulence. Very strong. The FASTEN SEAT BELT sign is lit. I must have dozed; the plane is darkened. Is it night? No; just the movie. I feel bloated. I extend the belt but the buckles will not reach because my belly his grown huge. It is enormous. Pangs. I SCREECH! I do not mean to but the pressure is immense. Attendants come. I try to stifle further outcries but I SCREECH AGAIN! Such throbs; the pain is awful! All around me! All inside me! They say "labor." No; impossible. They say "clear the aisle." I block their busy hands. They must not touch me. I am horrorstruck. I will... OH, ANOTHER SALVO!...like my womb explodes yet somehow stays unbroken, walls intact. Except the entrance starts to dilate; I can feel it as they lift me. It grows wider; fluid soaks my thighs—snapped shut; they must not see! They have my skirt off. STOP! My panties. I am helpless to prevent them. I am lying on my back, with knees akimbo, short of breath. They say "relax." Relax? How can I, with my body rent asunder, as if gas or something solid tries to vacate. They say "push." I feel contractions like my bowels are apt to vent. I flush what ails me. There are murmurs, twisted faces. They are staring. With disgust? I am convinced some see a fetus in the globs of bloody discharge, whereas others see four packets, linked like sausages, grossly spewed, that call to question who am I, where am I from, why unaccompanied, and to what did I, in Allah's name, give birth?