Wade glanced at his watch and drummed his fingers on his teeth. Then he punched numbers on his phone. “Roberta? This is the damndest, weirdest thing. Another crazy fan,” he said to Roberta Fisher, his publicity guru. “Get someone to take it off our hands. I’m sure the authorities will show up for it.”

Lulu resumed crying.

“Shshshshhh. No one’s taking you away.” Nola flashed her beaded handbag in front of Lulu. Distracted, the baby tried to stuff its corner into her mouth.

By the time they reached the hotel and re-entered the clamor of popping flashbulbs and shouting reporters, Roberta had taken charge, and Lulu was crying.

“This is a fabulous story.” Roberta's voice could be heard on the other side of the street. A big-boned woman in her late forties with a poodle-like mop of brass-colored hair, “Big Mouth” Roberta had been a radio-show host on CNB’s popular “Saturday All-Night Party.” She had been forced to leave the station when listeners, offended by her faked on-air orgasms, boycotted the sponsors.

“This is not a ‘story,’ ” Nola told her over the baby’s cries.

“Sure it is. It happened right in front of the paparazzi. TV networks from a zillion countries have original footage. We might as well cook something delicious out of this.”

“This is some bizarre conspiracy. We’re being set up,” Wade said.

“Elvis, maybe?” Roberta asked.

Nola stomped her foot. “You saw what happened. A young, desperate mother wanted to give her baby girl a better life.” She stabilized her voice. “No evil intentions.”

“That was no Easter bunny dropping an egg in your basket. A ‘gotcha’ is sure to come.” Roberta pursed her fleshy lips. “We need a pre-emptive spin. I vote to offer a discreet, moderate sum if a family shows up. But until then, we milk this for all it’s worth.”

Every scheme Roberta came up with was exaggerated, a reflection of the woman herself. Refusing to be shaken out of her euphoria, Nola kept her attention on Lulu, but the baby was bawling, and the urgency of her needs vibrated in Nola's head.

“Don’t cry, Dumpling. I’m going to feed you,” she cooed. “Very soon.”

“Nola, what does your husband say about this?” shouted a reporter. Others followed: “Are you planning to keep it?” “Is it deformed?” “What made the mother get rid of her child?”

“That’s enough.” Roberta raised her hand toward the reporters. Holding on to Nola, she barreled by the uniformed doormen. “You’re not going to speculate about the who and why, Nola-pooh. You’re a goodwill ambassador and you’re going to stay away from the subject of why women in China abandon their baby girls. Capeesh?”

Behind Nola, Leslie lifted the short train of her dress. Lulu twisted in her arms and pitched herself forward, crying. Nola gathered in the flailing limbs. “I know you’re hungry,” she whispered while entering the hotel. “Do you want milk? Tofu?”