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<p>Page 25.</p>
<p>But I digress. I was talking about the crying baby that woke me. I
discovered the infant care ward while cruising the hallways in my new
hospital-issue wheelchair; I glanced inside a room to see rows of
glowing pink- and brown- skinned babies, tiny limbs flailing and
clutching at the air inside yellow plastic incubators. Couples filled
the chairs, wrapped around each other. I stopped going that way,
though, when one man looked at me like: <em>Well, that puts things
into perspective</em>.</p>
<p>The baby that woke me sounded frightened. I heard another join it,
then a third. Each crying baby seemed louder than the last, until I
realized they were just closer.</p>
<p>Cassandra Cautery, the tiny lawyer, appeared in the doorway. She wore
a snug gray jacket over a pinstripe shirt with a big collar, and a
little skirt. It was a schoolgirl-meets-Wall-Street look. Her eyes
glistened, as if she was on the verge of tears. Her lips trembled
like she couldn&rsquo;t keep the sympathy in. &ldquo;Oh, Charlie,&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;Look at you, you poor thing.&rdquo; I could barely
hear her over the wailing of the babies.</p>