Dee is sitting on her bed with the baby clutched to her chest. Tears stream down her cheeks.

“Dee?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She gets up wearily, wiping the tears away, before passing the baby to me. He wakes immediately and begins mewling, and I watch as Dee heads for the bathroom, where she closes herself in.

“Dee?” I call but she’s already started running bathwater, which probably drowns me and the baby out. God, to think Ma called me the drama queen. I roll my eyes at Dee’s theatrics. Keeping the baby for one night rather than handing it in to the authorities is hardly something to blubber over.

I turn my attention to the poor mite, who is clearly crazed with hunger. There are a lot of instructions for sterilizing the bottles and teats, which are mostly helpful, but I’m also grateful for all my years of secretly watching TV shows and movies that featured babies. I always considered it my guilty pleasure, but it’s amazing how much you can learn about burping, feeding, and changing nappies by watching someone else do it.

I’m trying to do everything one-handed as I hold the little guy against my chest, but it’s almost impossible and I give up and put him down on the couch. The bassinet will need to be properly set up before he can use it, so I put together a makeshift nest by placing the baby between four pillows arranged in a square. He’s so tiny that he barely moves even while he’s bringing the place down with his screaming.

“Watch the baby,” I instruct the dog, who dutifully sits down next to him.

“Almost done. Your food is almost ready,” I croon from the kitchen. The baby’s face is scrunched up in fury and his pouty lips are pulled back from his gums. I hope that the sound of my voice is doing something to soothe him, even though all signs point to the opposite.

The dog licks the baby’s hand and his crying goes down a few decibels.

“Good dog.”

When I’ve finally mixed the formula in the bottle and let it cool to the right temperature, checking it on my inner arm to be sure, I rush it over to the baby and pick him up. Holding him in the crook of my arm, I put the bottle to his lips and squirt a drop of liquid onto them.

The baby’s lips immediately close over the teat as he snuffles and begins sucking with such zeal that I’m scared he’ll choke. “Slow down, little fella. Take it easy. There’s plenty more where that came from.” He’s clearly skeptical because he keeps taking great big gulps. Most of the formula pours from his mouth, down his chubby cheeks and into the multiple little fat rolls of his neck.