showed, with a little pink-and-blue-striped knitted cap on her tiny head. Everything else—her torso, arms, and legs—was a diminutive, taut bundle.
It was a mystery how anything could be so small and so light and still be a complete human being. She was asleep, with the most peaceful expression I had ever seen on a living thing. Her jaw was slack, but her lips—perfect and full—were closed, with the lower lip sucked in slightly under the upper. Her smooth, round cheeks sagged near the corners of her mouth from their own weight. Her large froggy eyelids were completely wrinkled, but they were new, fresh wrinkles, not old. Her nose was tiny and broad. Her ears looked like little sculptures.
The second nurse had his back to us the whole time, standing at a procedures table, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. He was working on an infant whose fussing was becoming insistent.
“Everything okay over there?” Day Boy asked. The mask made his voice slightly muffled.
The baby’s cry turned to a guttural, hysterical scream.
“I think I got it,” the nurse said, not turning around. His tone didn’t inspire confidence.
Day Boy moved to join him.
I looked at the chart on top of the metal box below the baby’s bassinet. She had been fed only fifteen minutes ago by breast. Another close call: if I had arrived sooner, she would have been in the room with her mother, and I might have had to face Ciel. The baby’s full belly explained her sleepy contentment. For a brief second I had a pang of jealousy. What was it like to nod off whenever the urge came? My thoughts were getting thick from my own exhaustion. I wished I could curl up somewhere, anywhere, full to distension, and close my eyes.
I looked at the rest of her chart—she had been fed at roughly two-hour intervals. So she was about an hour and a half away from needing to eat again. The metal box below the bassinet had a sliding door that was open, showing stacks of tiny diapers. I slipped one into the left back pocket of my jeans, out of sight under the visitor’s gown. I hoped I wouldn’t need more than one diaper; I was pretty sure I could complete my kidnapping-and-restoration mission in ninety minutes. Or maybe: my kidnapping-and-go-to-jail-for-life mission.
There was a baby boy asleep to the right of the Le Coeur bassinet. On his metal supply box was another chart, but also, miraculously, a stray stethoscope. A nurse or a doctor must have left it there after filling in his data. It might prove useful to me.
“Whoa!” I heard Day Boy say. I stiffened. And then he said, speaking to the nurse, “You’re doing that too close to the calcaneus. Use the lancet more on the side of the heel. What test did you say you’re collecting blood for?”
“CBC?” the nurse said, uncertainly.
“Well then, where’s your microtainer? Have you done this before?”
I guessed not all Day employees were brilliant, which figured. Rays are only human, too.
All at once—or as “at once” as my sleep-deprived state allowed—I realized this was it . This was my chance: Day Boy and the other guy had their backs turned. I scanned the ward through the windows. There was a nurse on the phone at the ward station, completely distracted. A doctor and a Medical Assistant were in the hall, but conferring with a maternity patient who was taking a slow, painful walk with an IV pole.
I lifted my visitor’s gown to the side. I unzipped my hoodie. I put the baby against the cavity of my stomach. There was an advantage to being skin and bones and too tall: my “pregnancy” wouldn’t show much. She felt warm through my T-shirt. Even though she was swaddled, her little mass was somewhat pliable, and for the first time I was frightened by the fact that she was a living person. I would have responsibility for keeping her safe if I pulled this off. I zipped up my hoodie just enough to hold her body securely in place, but not so much that there wasn’t room for air to
It was a mystery how anything could be so small and so light and still be a complete human being. She was asleep, with the most peaceful expression I had ever seen on a living thing. Her jaw was slack, but her lips—perfect and full—were closed, with the lower lip sucked in slightly under the upper. Her smooth, round cheeks sagged near the corners of her mouth from their own weight. Her large froggy eyelids were completely wrinkled, but they were new, fresh wrinkles, not old. Her nose was tiny and broad. Her ears looked like little sculptures.
The second nurse had his back to us the whole time, standing at a procedures table, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. He was working on an infant whose fussing was becoming insistent.
“Everything okay over there?” Day Boy asked. The mask made his voice slightly muffled.
The baby’s cry turned to a guttural, hysterical scream.
“I think I got it,” the nurse said, not turning around. His tone didn’t inspire confidence.
Day Boy moved to join him.
I looked at the chart on top of the metal box below the baby’s bassinet. She had been fed only fifteen minutes ago by breast. Another close call: if I had arrived sooner, she would have been in the room with her mother, and I might have had to face Ciel. The baby’s full belly explained her sleepy contentment. For a brief second I had a pang of jealousy. What was it like to nod off whenever the urge came? My thoughts were getting thick from my own exhaustion. I wished I could curl up somewhere, anywhere, full to distension, and close my eyes.
I looked at the rest of her chart—she had been fed at roughly two-hour intervals. So she was about an hour and a half away from needing to eat again. The metal box below the bassinet had a sliding door that was open, showing stacks of tiny diapers. I slipped one into the left back pocket of my jeans, out of sight under the visitor’s gown. I hoped I wouldn’t need more than one diaper; I was pretty sure I could complete my kidnapping-and-restoration mission in ninety minutes. Or maybe: my kidnapping-and-go-to-jail-for-life mission.
There was a baby boy asleep to the right of the Le Coeur bassinet. On his metal supply box was another chart, but also, miraculously, a stray stethoscope. A nurse or a doctor must have left it there after filling in his data. It might prove useful to me.
“Whoa!” I heard Day Boy say. I stiffened. And then he said, speaking to the nurse, “You’re doing that too close to the calcaneus. Use the lancet more on the side of the heel. What test did you say you’re collecting blood for?”
“CBC?” the nurse said, uncertainly.
“Well then, where’s your microtainer? Have you done this before?”
I guessed not all Day employees were brilliant, which figured. Rays are only human, too.
All at once—or as “at once” as my sleep-deprived state allowed—I realized this was it . This was my chance: Day Boy and the other guy had their backs turned. I scanned the ward through the windows. There was a nurse on the phone at the ward station, completely distracted. A doctor and a Medical Assistant were in the hall, but conferring with a maternity patient who was taking a slow, painful walk with an IV pole.
I lifted my visitor’s gown to the side. I unzipped my hoodie. I put the baby against the cavity of my stomach. There was an advantage to being skin and bones and too tall: my “pregnancy” wouldn’t show much. She felt warm through my T-shirt. Even though she was swaddled, her little mass was somewhat pliable, and for the first time I was frightened by the fact that she was a living person. I would have responsibility for keeping her safe if I pulled this off. I zipped up my hoodie just enough to hold her body securely in place, but not so much that there wasn’t room for air to
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