You are nine months old.

You live at the Volkov Infants Home near Saint Petersburg.

The Russians have sent us a medical record of you. (Danielle has already told us this might not be legit. Sometimes they haven’t disclosed to prospective parents long-standing medical issues, or illness, or surgeries you may have had, yet of course everything we send them has to be both perfect and verifiable—don’t get me started.) We have your Apgar score, your measurements at birth, your test results for HIV, hepatitis B and C, syphilis—all negative. According to Russian medical specialists, you have “no pathology” with your eyes, your ears, nose, or throat. You have had your vaccines. The ultrasound of your brain is normal. But there are a whole range of specialists who have never examined you: cardiologist, for example. Or oncologist. I think of Julia and her neuroblastoma, and that to go through that again would be so hard. The section marked “relationship with other children” is blank, and I panic for a moment, until I think it’s because of your age, not for a worrying reason that you can’t get along with others.

And a video of you on DVD. We don’t get to keep this. It has to be returned. That bugs me—is this a test of our trustworthiness? Would the Russians know if this video was copied to a computer? I think about it, but I don’t want to risk it.

And a photograph.

And on the back of the photograph is written, in carefully block-printed English: ALEXANDER BUT WE CALL HIM SASHA.

The clock is ticking.

We have seventy-two hours to say we want you, Sasha.

I studied the photograph of you as Danielle drove us to the children’s hospital in Austin. A doctor she knows will review the video of you to try to identify any concerns or problems or issues that could affect our decision.

Danielle said to me: “Normally, the doctor would review it without you there, but Dr. Gupta said he could look at it with you and Kyle since you might have questions. As a favor.”

I stared at your picture. You were not a fat baby, but that might not be unusual in a Saint Petersburg orphanage. Your eyes were open wide, and you seemed vaguely startled by the camera. I hoped the flash didn’t make you cry. Wispy blond hair crowned your head. You looked good. A little serious. I wished you were smiling in the picture… You think they would have sent me one with you smiling. You looked handsome.

You looked like you should be my child. And Kyle’s.

Danielle asked, as she drove, “Iris? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I think he’s the one.”