“He’s so little.” Flexing my hand caused pain as I stared through glass at the tiny bundle wrapped in a blanket all alone in his little bassinette. My knuckles were still red from when I’d punched Steven Leary. The baby’s face was red, too. My mother said that was normal.
Someone had told me he was a boy. By that time, as darkness was becoming light, I couldn’t remember who. Even if no one had, the tiny blue cap gave it away.
“Does he have a name?”
The card on the front of the bassinette just said Wilkes.
“Not yet,” my mother said.
A different hospital employee went in to check on him every two or three minutes, it seemed. Every time he was quiet, someone would rouse him, to poke, prod, or try to feed him from a tiny baby bottle. Nurses cooed over Baby Boy Wilkes. The doctor was more
