She pushed open the door and stepped in. Cries and moans assaulted her. Here and there she caught a repetitive movement as babies rocked themselves. “Where is everybody?” Nola went to the first row and found two and three babies to a crib. In spite of the chill, no blankets were visible. “There must be some night caretakers.”

She stopped next to a crib where one of the babies was standing, following her movements. Catching Nola's eye, a pathetic smile stretched on the face that was split by a harelip. Little arms reached up for her. Nola bent and picked up the baby, but its loose cotton pants were sodden; there was no way she could hug the baby without soaking her silk dress. From her outstretched arms, the baby tried to grab her hair. Just as Lulu had done.

“A recent arrival. She’s not drugged with sleeping medication.” Daniel smiled at the infant. “And she still communicates. She probably hasn’t been tortured because of her deformity.”

“Tortured?”

“By relatives, kids, neighbors.”

“Someone loved and protected this baby girl until she was old enough to stand. Someone’s heart must have broken giving her away,” Nola mumbled, thinking of Lulu’s mother. She surveyed the crib for identification. “How do we find out her name?”

“Even in functional families, children are often numbered rather than given names, especially girls. Girl one, girl two.”

“My foundation underwrites craniofacial surgeries for kids, but we haven’t reached China,” Nola said. Careful to keep the baby away from her dress, she carried her and crossed the vast room toward a table. Beside it was a playpen filled with a tangled heap of skin and bones swathed in colorful fabrics and twisted into unnatural positions. It took Nola a moment to distinguish six babies with disabled limbs contorted into odd angles.

The Dying Rooms. Now she understood.

She put the baby down on the dressing table. On the shelf below was a stack of large cloth squares of all colors, probably donations from the neighborhood sweatshops.

“Let me change her. You’ll need your dress clean for the LeRoy Neiman presentation.” Daniel struggled to free the baby of her sopping rags. His chin pointed toward a narrow metal cabinet. “Look in the closet for some shirts.”

Nola tried the cabinet. It was locked. “The clothes they lock. The babies they leave unsupervised,” she muttered. She looked for a sink. There was none. She took a premoistened towelette out of her handbag and handed it to Daniel. She watched him wipe the baby with expert, tender hands, and was struck by a sudden urge to be back at the hotel with Lulu.

A creaking sound at the door made her turn her head. A tiny old woman, carrying a mop and a pail, pushed the door open with her posterior, turned around, and eyed the visitors. She cleared her throat and spit on the floor.