Baby Girl Dalton had none of that.
She had a hospital bracelet, a temporary name, and a cry that sounded far too tired for someone so new to the world.
That morning, we had tried everything appropriate. We dimmed the lights, swaddled her carefully, checked her feeding schedule, her temperature, her breathing—every detail that mattered. We used every gentle method we knew.
Still, she cried.
Her tiny fists tightened beneath the blanket. Her face flushed red. Her body stiffened, trembled, and started again.
Hank turned toward the sound before I had even finished introducing myself.
“Is that the baby who needs holding?” he asked.
I glanced at his volunteer badge.
He had passed every background check. He had completed every required training. He had been approved for our infant comfort program, where volunteers could sit with babies whose families couldn’t be present.
Still, I found myself looking at his hands.
They were large, rough, marked with old scars.
Not the hands I had imagined holding something so fragile.
“She’s having a difficult morning,” I said gently.
Behind me, another nurse whispered, “That man?”
I pretended not to hear.
Hank did hear it.
But he didn’t turn around.
