You're whistling a pop tune on a walk through your neighborhood. Across the street a young pregnant lady is doing the same, smiling as she passes. Suddenly the sky turns dark, a freak storm arises. Flash! There's walloping thunder. A bolt of lightning has cut through a tree. A gigantic limb has split and fallen. The woman across the street is pinned across her chest between the charred branch and sidewalk.
After you get home, you sigh for a while, then go to bed. The next day you hear on the news that a woman was found dead in your neighborhood. You sigh again. Many years later, after the incident is forgotten, you find you often sigh at odd intervals, and for no apparent reason.
You use the long branch as a lever, prying up the heavy chunk that is pinning her down. Somehow you manage to nudge her free. But she is still lying on the sidewalk, too groggy to get up. And the pain in her stomach has reached a climax.
The pregnant lady has undergone forced labor, brought on by her trauma. You see a small head popping out from her womb.
The infant belts out a wail. Strong fresh lungs bellow with life. Staring weakly at you from the ground, the mother cries out in disbelief. A rescue team finally arrives, and the mother is helped up and brought to your side. "It's a miracle," she weeps happily into your ear. "I will call this miracle by a special name. A hero's name. Please tell me yours."
