A wrinkly baby covered in white stuff is floating in the reddish water between your legs. You can't see its genitalia, so you carefully turn it around to find out it's a girl. You know nothing about babies, but as far as you can tell she seems to be normal and complete, with the average number of toes and fingers. You take her out of the water and put her down on your belly, with her head between your breasts, feeling her warm little body on yours. For a moment, you ignore that you used to be a boy, that you've just become a teenage mom in a hotel room and that you have nowhere to go and no clothes for your daughter who is still attached by umbilical cord to a placenta in your womb which you have to birth. Tears are running down your face, but you're not crying because of all those problems - you're crying out of happiness to have somehow made it this far and also because of hormones. The baby - you just can't think of a name for her right now - starts making little noises, the first of her life, and is moving her head a bit. Looking down at her, you wonder what she might want to tell you. You see your large nipples and swollen breasts, and maternal instinct tells you what to do. With a little help, she finds the nipple and starts suckling. Feeding a child you never planned to have from a breast you didn't have yesterday, you laugh a little at the absurdity of it all.