Through the glass, he sees her check the numbers of the wooden cribs. She moves past one, not his, another, not his, another, not his, another, not his.
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It is the 1920s, a crowded hospital in one of the poorest sections of the city. Eddie's father smokes cigarettes in the waiting room, where the other fathers are also smoking cigarettes. The nurse enters with a clipboard. She calls his name. She mispronounces it. The other men blow smoke. Well?
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He raises his hand.
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The father breathes heavily, nods his head. For a moment, his face seems to crumble, like a bridge collapsing into a river. Then he smiles.
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He follows her down the hallway to the newborns' nursery. His shoes clap on the floor.
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"Congratulations," the nurse says.
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"Wait here," she says.
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She stops. There. Beneath the blanket. A tiny head covered in a blue cap. She checks her clipboard again, then points.
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His.
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