"Baby Lefkowitz," "Baby O'Hara," "Baby Thompson," "Baby Cohn." She read on, down the shelf. She read all the cards. She knew that he was not there. She was consciously saving the bassinets for the last to keep alive a faint glow of hope. If he were not in one of the bassinets, then she had to find Miss Brown. Yes, then she'd have to find Miss Brown.
She turned away from the shelves. Her heart beat fiercely. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes stung. He had to be here. Oh, Lord, how could she stand it if he weren't?
The card on the first bassinet announced that Baby Vernon was asleep therein. Quickly Dot's eyes turned to the second card. It read, "Baby Collins." She plucked the baby from its bed and looked at him. Yes, it was her baby, but was he alive? Roughly, she ran her hand over his face. He was certainly cooler than he had been at ten o'clock. What did that mean? Was he going to be cold soon? Cold!
She pressed him to her breast in an agony of terror. She wanted to awaken him. She must see him move. She whispered to him, "Honey lamb, Mommie's baby." But the little pink eyelids remained closed. To pinch, ever so slightly, his little arm, might awaken him; but Dot grew sick at the thought of hurting him.
She sat down on the nurse's chair and rocked him back and forth, talking to him. "Baby, wake up. Mommie's alone and scared. Baby, baby, darling, wake up. They say you can't see or hear much at first, but you must hear me now. Baby, wake up."
The baby did not move. Silence surrounded and closed in on Dot. There was no one to help her, no one to care that she couldn't awaken her baby. Scalding tears ran down her cheeks and dropped on the baby's tiny hands. His little fingers moved resentfully.
