The text at the top read Chicago Mobile Notary Services, followed by a date from the previous afternoon and a charge of seventy-five dollars. Below the total, in small, printed letters, was the name of the client: Adrian Vale.
“Is it yours?” Clara asked.
“My husband must have dropped it,” I said, folding the paper twice and slipping it under my plastic water pitcher on the bedside table.
“He seemed very busy yesterday,” Clara said, checking the level of my IV bag before writing a few numbers on her clipboard. “Most fathers are a bit more distracted by the babies when they first arrive.”
“He has a lot of responsibilities downtown,” I said.
She did not wait for an answer, turning instead to check Leo’s breathing monitor with a quiet hum of agreement.
The receipt lay flat under the plastic bottom of the pitcher, the blue ink of the notary service logo slowly turning dark as a ring of condensation began to form around the base.
Adrian returned at eleven, his camel-hair coat unbuttoned, carrying a leather briefcase that looked too wide for the hospital’s narrow wooden closet. He did not look at the bassinets as he crossed the room, his eyes scanning the counter where my dinner tray had been
