The baby liked the toys well enough. He squeezed the rubber duck, smiled when she said duckie over and over. He threw the plastic rings, though it wasn’t really throwing. It was more like he held them and then waved his arms and the rings flew off. Collect them, give them back, he’d do it again. Red was his favorite. He always picked red first.

But it was paper he most loved to play with. Crumple up the tissue paper from the toy boxes and hold it out to him and he’d grab the paper ball and tear at it like a puppy, grinning his toothless grin. He’d fling the paper, tear at it, fling it again, chuckling to himself.

It was the sound he liked, that was clear, so he must have very good hearing. The idea was to sit with him, talking for as long as he’d listen, as long as he was awake. The mom probably hadn’t been much of a talker, on drugs the way she was. But maybe that was good because the books talked about imprinting, and maybe that hadn’t happened yet.

It was a wonder he was as healthy as he was, growing up with druggies and drunks. But he was active and happy and seemed to enjoy the company, all the attention. Playing catch with the ball (though he didn’t catch it as much as push it), hitting the floor with the rubber hammer (he was a typical boy, wasn’t he?), ripping his paper.

He didn’t even mind when they changed him, grinning up at them, sometimes peeing straight up into the air, like one of those cherubs in a fountain. And the whole time, his name was repeated to him, over and over.

“Sam. Your name is Sam. My name is . . .”