Dima walked to an alley next to the police station. She pulled out Pompeii from her pocket and spun.
It was a pregnant man with a beard and strong muscles who walked from the alley. The door to the police station was light in Dima’s manly hand.
“Where’s the birth control woman, Margaret Sanger?” Dima bellowed in a deep voice.
There were three policemen in the station. Their jaws dropped at the pregnant man.
Dima shoved the policemen out of the way and grabbed Margaret Sanger by the elbow. She punched the cop that was guarding the activist.
The sight of a pregnant man so startled the cops that they simply let Dima walk out of the police station with Margaret Sanger.
Dima stole a paddy wagon and the midwife and birth control advocate bounced on the seat beside Dima. It was all over the news that the American Automobile Association proclaimed women drivers as skilled as men, but they had not ridden with Dima behind the wheel.
Margaret Sanger seemed to be in shock from her jailbreak. It seemed she had noticed that the driver of her getaway vehicle was a pregnant man.
Dima was driving while having contractions. Luckily, no one followed the women. Trolley tracks ran down the street middle, the rubber tires of the paddy wagon squealing against the iron rails.
Dima had only driven a few miles and would have preferred to drive further but the baby was demanding to be born and of in all places, Little Tokyo. The police would never look for them in a garage belonging to the firecracker factory.
Dima turned to Margaret Sanger. She looked afraid even though Dima had rescued her. “I can trust you, Mrs. Sanger?” she asked.
Margaret. Sanger gave her a leery look.
Dima got down from behind the steering wheel. She walked around the front of the vehicle, and opened the passenger door so Margaret Sanger would not lock herself in. “What I am about to show you is a secret,” Dima said.
She clutched Pompeii in her fist and spun slowly until she turned into the young pregnant Dima. “Do you remember me?”
She stared at Dima with wide eyes. “It’s hard to forget someone as perfect-looking as you are.”
“Yes, the shape-shifting improves my looks. What would you say if I told you that I am really a 98-year-old woman who is about to give birth?”
Before she could answer, Dima spun slowly. She stood there an ancient hag with a belly sticking out with a baby, a belly that had dropped since the baby was getting ready to be born. “I need your help, Margaret Sanger,” Dima whined. “I am afraid to have this baby since I am so old.” She doubled over.