Two year old Cain stood, alone and frowning, his hands clenched around a large wooden bowl. A few minutes before, his father had frantically ordered him to get some water, but had apparently forgotten since then. Cain had stumbled as quickly as his legs could carry him to fetch it. He ran away from the field where his father stood, panicked; away from his mother's pained cries; away from the obvious fear in both their eyes. His father always knew what was going on; he could speak to God. But now there was something wrong, and even Cain could tell. Was God angry with his mother? She was very nice; why would God be angry with her?

A whimper had passed unchecked through his lips, and he had knelt down to pick up the curve of wood that his mother always used to carry water and food. It was too long for his arms to hold, so he took one end and dragged it off to the river.

With a single-mindedness that only children can possess, he forgot about his parents and the events of the clearing, and concentrated on his task as though it was the one thing his body was made for. As though he could and would do this one thing, even if he could do no more.

Cain tripped at the bank of the river, and banged his knee on the ground, his hands splashing into the water. He frowned down at his knee; it hurt real bad. But he couldn't stop! His mother needed his help! He pushed the end of the curved wood into the water, as though launching a toy boat. But this boat sunk at the end, filling up with liquid. Cain pulled on it, trying to get it back on land. He slipped twice on the mud, and almost let go of the wood completely. But, finally, he managed to get it out. He dragged it back to the clearing, as water slowly trickled out from the lowered end of its container.

His breath rasping, Cain tottered toward his parents. He had hoped that God would help his mother by the time he came back, but she didn't look any better. She still had a really, really big belly, and now she was squatting on the ground. Maybe her belly was so big that she couldn't even stand up. Cain's lower lip slipped into a pout. He turned to look at the water, but there was hardly any left. His right arm was still holding on to the wood, which was trailing behind him like a forgotten child.

His father hadn't realized that he had come back. He was kneeling beside his wife and smoothing the hair from her forehead. He was murmuring something too soft for Cain to catch. His mother had her right arm around his father's neck, and her left hand was rubbing against her belly.

Every now and then, Eve's face would contort in pain, but Adam would hush her and place his hand over her cheek gently. Cain could tell his mother was in pain, but didn't know what to do. One more forlorn glance back behind him confirmed that, yes, the water was still gone. His bottom lip quivered. He'd failed. There was nothing else he could do.

So he curled up next to the wooden bowl, slipped his thumb into his mouth, and went to sleep.

He was woken just as the sun was rising. Or was it setting? His father was kneeling beside him and smiling.

"Cain? Cain, wake up. You have a brother."

Cain frowned. "Bro—ver?" He intoned.

"Yes. Would you like to see? We've named him Abel."

With wide eyes, Cain watched his mother approach. She was holding something close to her; bundled in her arms. Her eyes were alight with happiness, even though she looked weary.

Cain gasped, smiling. He knew what that was!

"Cat!" He exclaimed.

Eve laughed as she knelt by her husband. "No, Cain. Not a cat."

"Cat!" Cain insisted.

Eve leaned toward him and showed him the baby. He frowned. "Not cat," he said.

She laughed softly. "Not cat," she agreed. "He's a boy. A boy like you." Eve reached out and touched Cain's nose as she said that.

Cain reached up and touched his own nose, crossing his eyes to look at it. "Boy?" He looked back down at the baby nestled in his mother's arms. Gently, he reached one finger and tapped Abel on the nose, too. "Boy!"