It was delicate work, so Chaplin invited Kono to push from the other side, which he did, and it was an unexpected strain for both of them, Chaplin pulling, Kono pushing, each of them telling the other to be careful, and then it was free, and Kono fell into the cabin of the car. Chaplin, suddenly bearing the toy’s bulk, started to topple himself, but spun in place, staggered, and managed not to drop it.

Were there people in wheelchairs around him? Patients on tables? Doctors performing surgery on the sidewalk for some reason, elbows about to be jostled into performing accidental abortions? He couldn’t see Kono or the car, but only fur and sky. He asked if Kono was all right, and there was a brief groan, then assent, yes, he was fine, Mr. Charlie should go visit Missus.

The maternity ward was on the third floor. The elevators were slow, as they always were in hospitals, wide enough to dock H.M.S. Dreadnought in, and the smell was of iodine.

A nurse sat behind a desk, some distance from the elevators, a long, whitewashed hall that was being mopped at either end. Chaplin almost slipped, but he carried his giraffe perfectly, as if it were a tureen filled with soup. The nurse had seen many expectant fathers coming down this hall, some of them in triumph, some skulking, some drunk, and more than a few bearing gifts. But none like this. It was a giraffe that wanted to float and spin its way awkwardly toward her, with splaying human legs to support its dreams.

Chaplin arrived at the nurses’ station and dropped the toy carefully to the ground. “Hello,” he said, grinning, “I’m here to see Mildred Chaplin. I’m her husband.”

The nurse did not meet his eye, not at first, and then it was as if she felt she had no choice. She was not reacting to his identity—or, rather, she was, except she didn’t care that he was Charlie Chaplin. “She’s in Room 311.”

Chaplin swallowed, a sound as loud as water hitting a metal pail. “Has, has it happened yet?”

The nurse nodded.

“And she’s all right?”

She nodded again.

He picked up his giraffe and left.

When he saw the second nurse sitting outside Room 311, he knew his baby was dead. Unlike the first nurse, this one had some religious garb— he was never good at telling apart nuns and Red Cross workers, but this one had a black hood, and a cross around her neck. She looked through his stuffed toy, through his enthusiasm. It was at once a simple look—she was sad—and not, in that he saw her religion was giving her comfort, and she was about to extend it his way.

“Hullo,” he said. “I’m Charlie Chaplin.”

She nodded at him.

“Where is my wife?”

“She’s resting.”