"…If it be now,
'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the
readiness is all…"

-William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act V Scene ii

"Your task is not to foresee the future, but to enable it."

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

"He told me his name was Kyle Reese," she told them. "And that he was a veteran." Half true. Of course there was no Kyle Reese in military records, but those words and a little judicious palm-greasing got him a full military funeral anyway. It wasn't enough, really, and it didn't help heal the gaping, weeping hole in her heart, but he deserved a rest at last.

Mrs. Connor's funeral was the last straw for Sarah, and she spent the night before it and the night after it screaming soundlessly into her hands. But every sleepless night dawned eventually, and she'd get up and wash her face and dress and go out and be. Because there was no time left to waste, she knew now. A storm was coming.

Sarah's storm came nine months later. Labor was long and difficult, and she was in Colombia at the time. But forty-seven hours of exhausting back labor later, the doula was wrapping and shushing and suctioning the nose of a screaming, wrinkly, blood-covered little boy while Sarah panted on the bed and waited, exhausted, for the afterbirth.

Then the doula was at her side, and Sarah opened her eyes halfway and smiled a bit at her. "Hallelujah," she said. The other woman smiled back and nodded. Her arms were pushing at Sarah's, and she instinctively took the doula's armful. The other woman wiped her face on a trailing tail of the headscarf that was keeping her hair out of the way, tugging it tight as she returned to her post between Sarah's legs.

Sarah looked down. Her baby's face was screwed up and red, and his little mouth was gaping in a soundless wail. So this was the future.

"You'd better be him," she muttered, "because no way in Hell am I doing that again."

"Tienes que amamantarlo," the doula said. Sarah glanced at her—her Spanish still wasn't very good—and the doula mimed cradling a baby to her breast. Sarah nodded hurriedly and held her son away so she could tug up her shirt.

He latched immediately and started sucking, to her relief. Her breast already felt lighter and less painful. His little eyes were closed now, but in rest. She couldn't really tell with his nose still flattened from the birth, but she wondered if it looked anything like Kyle's. She hoped so.

Kyle's son. Her son. Their son. Here in her arms.

Sarah felt tears pricking her nose, and tipped her head back against the pillows, blinking, to hold them in.

"¿Qué te vas a llamarlo?"

That was a no-brainer, of course.

"John," she replied, and raised her head again to look at him. He'd fallen asleep. That made sense—the two of them had had a stressful couple of days. And there was more to come, she knew, but right now they were living in the eye of the storm, and she would make the most of it. "His name is John Connor."