He’d been crying for almost two hours, a frantic wail broken up by gasps when he ran out of breath. It had to be a stomachache, the way he was pulling up his legs and writhing. Maybe something he ate. The pureed peas and carrots. Maybe he had gas.

Holding him helped for a few minutes, but then he’d start to scream again, his knees yanked up against his little belly. Probably addicted to drugs, poor little thing, going through some sort of withdrawal. What was it they called them—crack babies? Except that was newborns, wasn’t it? Getting the drugs in the womb, in the mother’s blood. Unless she’d been giving him drugs . . . Wouldn’t put it past her, the weak, selfish thing she was. Probably did it to shut him up when he fussed.

He screamed, thrashed. Yes, maybe it was stomach cramps, but burping him didn’t help, nothing coming up. Maybe some bicarbonate of soda, mix some in his bottle, see if he would take it, even a little. Was that okay for babies?

Now he was gasping like he was hyperventilating, then seemed to relax, crying still but more like a whimper. When he was put in the bed, he seemed to relax a little, poor exhausted thing. It was a chance to go get the bicarb, while he was sort of quiet. The door slid across, and he chose that moment to let out a wail.