It was a quiet night in a quiet frontier town when something miraculous happened. The miracle of life. The Dagger's had just delivered their first and only child.

The mother, Rose Dagger, was wearing a loose fit robe, open in the back like a hospital gown, her brunette hair drenched in sweat. Though the coarse, raw hemp fibers chafed her sensitive areas, she had other concerns at the moment.

She had been born into a wealthy family but none of the treasures or tapestries that adorned her birthing chamber could be found in this simple fire lit seating area. That was fine. The crude bench made from splintering wood suited her better than the down filled silk birthing chair her mother had custom made for when she was born.

Rose was not on speaking terms with her family. She hadn't been for nearly ten years. It was not that they hated each other. They did strongly disliked one another though.

The Strolickshad always been particularly concerned with what the other aristocrats thought of them. When Rose Dagger was little Rose Strolick, she was particularly concerned with worms. When she was supposed to be studying embroidery she would practice archery. Instead of practicing etiquette she would slip away to engage in mock combat with a tree. When her parents told her that she would never become a nobleman's bride if she didn't learn proper manners, she would, to her parents dismay, dig up worms in the yard.

Little Rose Strolick may have been somewhat of a tomboy, but the real reason she was estranged from her biological relatives was the man standing next to her, her loyal and heroic husband.

Dillon Dagger was the son of a humble potion master, and had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Due to the tremendous cost his father paid to study potions, Dillon's mouth was often filled with sewer rat stew on a cheap wooden spoon. A fact so upsetting to the Strolicks, that when asked about their daughter, they might reply, "She died a long time ago,” or “She was an orphaned peasant, not our real daughter.”

Though Dillon thought it a shame they were on bad terms with his wife's family, he was not ashamed of his humble origins nor the modest but functional home he and his father built in a part of town called "the pit.” In this home, Rose, Dillon, his father old Dean, and the newborn were occupying the mainroom, which was currently serving as a birthing chamber. There were three bedrooms, a kitchen used for cooking, and what was considered a frivolous luxury, a washroom. The entire house, from shingle to shit bucket, was made by hand so that on this night, when the Dagger house would grow from three to four Daggers, they would have a large, sturdy roof over their heads.

Four people were present, but all Mrs Gretta, the nosy neighbor, could hear was the soft crackle of the hearth.

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Dillon was in shock, his mousy but handsome face twisted in fright. He was a man who kept his cool under pressure. He'd seen a lot of things, and he'd done a lot of things to get to where he is now, but on this night, that he had every reason to believe would be an auspicious occasion, he faced true horror.

Rose, shortly after her delivery, was every bit as modified as her husband. Not because of family squabbles. It was because her baby had not yet made a single noise.

Old Dean was the only adult there to maintain any semblance of composure. Unlike Rose and Dillon who had nothing to do but worry, old Dean was assessing the health of the newborn. Eyes shut in concentration, he held the baby in one hand and wielded a greenish rod with the other. Sometimes poking, sometimes meticulously swiping, he inspected the child with the rod.

Meanwhile, across the street, Mrs Gretta was sitting at her usual spot, a table directly under the front window of her small single room home. She was doing her usual activity, eavesdropping on her neighbors with what looked like a miniature trombone she held to her ear. After minutes of silence, she began to wonder if the Dagger's had up and left without her noticing. That didn't make sense though. Nonsense was best left to her son.

"What's happening momma?" Greg, who both physically and cognitively could be described as "thick,” asked.

“Shush boy. I'm trying to listen," she said. The way she scrunched her nose to raise her taunt upper lip left behind characteristic lines, permanently writing disdain all over her wrinkly old face.

Greg replied by obediently shutting his mouth.

It was bad enough that she had to live in a single room with her idiot son, the fact that she couldn't even find out what's going on without being interrupted by a fat adult's adolescent questions was displeasing. At least she didn't have to look at him to listen to what her rough neck neighbors were up to.

Silence. Old Dean, for several long minutes now, was still concentrating on his task. Dillon and Rose were hardly breathing. This suffocating unease went on until old Dean finally opened his eyes and said, "I can't find anything wrong with the boy. He seems perfectly healthy.”

Dillon slowly released his held breath and allowed his contorted face to relax as the tension gripping the room evaporated. Rose's breath returned in sobs as the tears welling in her blue eyes turned into a flood. "Thank the gods,” she murmured.

"Thank the gods,” Dillon and old Dean softly echoed.

When the color returned to his face, Dillon gave a reassuring squeeze to his sobbing wife's shoulder, and with two confident strides approached old Dean to get a good look at his son. Dillon, sizing up his afterbirth covered, silent, newborn baby boy, had a funny thought. While the father was evaluating the son, it seemed as though the son was also evaluating the father.

No one present could have guessed what was really going on in that baby's head or why he was silent.