A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

All day long people have come and gone from the house next door -- some of whom I recognize as family and friends of the couple who live there; others, such as the midwife, more than once.

For over three days now, since the woman's water broke, a small inflatable swimming pool has sat in the middle of their living room floor. When the time comes, the pool will be filled with warm water and the woman will settle into it.

In the meantime, all is quiet, save for the roar of distant traffic, bird chirps, and every two hours, a slow, rising moan.