He said it without self-pity. Just stated it, the way you state a fact you’ve had nine years to get used to.
Cody had been in the NICU for eighteen days. He’d had a heart defect nobody caught early enough. He made it home. He had two years and four months of life, Wade said, and he was the kind of kid who laughed at everything, even the things that weren’t funny, especially those.
Wade stopped talking for a bit.
Then: “When I heard about this program, I thought, well. I know how to sit still. I know how to be quiet. Figured that counted for something.”
It counted for more than that. But I didn’t say it.
I just sat with him for a few minutes, the same way he was sitting with the baby.
What the Night Shift Saw
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.
