Twelve years before, the three Bills Bly are together in a small room of the hospital. The new baby has just been moved from Intensive Care; the vigorous, impatient grandfather can now hold him for the first time. He sits on the bed with the boy laid on his lap, the little head with its two bruised eyes upon the big closed knees. He lays his right hand along the side of the baby's face. I feel it in my own hand, on my own face. He says, "Oh. Oh. Oh." Beside that strong square hand, a tiny thin one dances, clenches and releases the air of the room, promising, fulfilling, knowing no better.
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