“They slept four hours straight,” Clara said, her voice a low, steady murmur as she checked the digital monitor on the wall. “Noah has a strong grip for a five-pound baby.”
I touched my collarbone, my fingers tracing the hollow where the bone met my neck. “He takes after my father.”
Clara bent down to adjust the brake on the wheel of the middle bassinet, where Samuel lay with his hands curled near his cheeks. As she straightened up, her shoe clicked against something metallic on the floor under the heavy visitor’s chair.
The chair was covered in dark blue vinyl, cracked slightly at the seam where the seat met the back. Clara reached down, her fingers grazing the dust near the base of the metal frame, and pulled out a small, folded strip of paper.
“Someone dropped their receipt,” she said, holding it out to me.
It was a narrow slip of thermal paper, the kind printed by small portable registers that mobile consultants carry in their cases. I took it, the paper dry and thin between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the slight waxy residue of the ink.
