“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.
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
