By the time Wade finally handed Baby Boy Nolan back, it was past ten o’clock at night.
He stood up slowly. His knees were stiff. He was sixty-one years old, I knew from his volunteer file, and he had just spent the better part of a day in a chair designed for someone considerably smaller.
He stretched his back. Winced once. Didn’t complain.
He watched Patrice settle the baby back into the incubator. Baby Boy Nolan stirred, made a sound like he was about to object, then went quiet again.
Wade nodded at the incubator like he was saying goodnight to someone.
Then he turned to leave.
At the door, he stopped and looked back at me. “Same time Thursday?” he asked. “I’m on the schedule.”
I told him we’d see him Thursday.
He left.
The unit was quiet. The monitors beeped. Somewhere down the hall, a mother was singing something low and tuneless to her daughter.
Denise came and stood next to me.
“You know what gets me,” she said, not really asking. “He figured out how to give somebody else’s kid what he couldn’t give his own.”
She went back to the station.
I stood there another second.
