He did not start with a gentle whimper or a hungry fuss.
The sound that came out of him was a high, piercing shriek that rattled the glass in my small china cabinet.
“This is not the sound of a hungry baby, Arthur,” I muttered to myself, the memory of my wife’s voice from our own sleepless nights echoing in the dark hallway.
I lifted him to my shoulder, but his tiny body went rigid, his back arching away from my chest with a strength that terrified me.
Toby’s tiny legs curled toward his stomach as his screams filled the small room.
I carried him down the short hallway into my bedroom, where the light was softer. The silver rattle my father had given to David sat on my dresser, catching the gray afternoon light. I picked it up, shaking it gently to make the hollow metallic chime that had always quieted David thirty years ago.
