If Burr was difficult before, he is much more difficult when the labor begins. The contractions are far apart, and for all the omegas say they are growing closer together, it doesn't seem so. They prod at him, so that after a few hours he is nearly back to hissing.

His back hurts, a low, dull ache, and he turns onto his side and entreats Hamilton to rub it, makes demands of him that are rude and unfair.

"My feet hurt," he grouses, "I'm thirsty," then "I don't want anymore," and "I want a bath," which really is not something that can be accommodated easily. He wants to take another walk, has some strange urge to pace, as much as he begins to pick at his bedding with steadily increasing distress. He needs more blankets, or the ones he has are not soft enough. He starts crying, when he finds a small hole, then starts crying harder, when someone tries to take the blanket to mend it.

"I want strawberries," he cries. "Why is it winter. It's not fair. It should be warm out. Help me walk. I want to see Laurens, and Lafayette, and Washington."