“Thanks.” I stared at the paper and fumbled with the chain. Papers and questions reminded me of everything I hated about school. Which was almost everything. From as far back as I could remember. Teachers telling me I had poor penmanship, calling it “chicken scratch” and “hieroglyphics.” They urged me to practice at home. Like that was going to happen. They said bullshit like good penmanship was a key to success in life. Only once did I believe a teacher was worthy of me trying to write neatly: mechanical drawing. That was the one class I liked. That was the one teacher who knew how to teach. Making pencil drawings of buildings and machines, using rulers and straightedges. Measuring perfect angles. I got my highest grade in that class: a B-minus. The only problem was the need to print block letters. All caps, all the same size. Evenly spaced. But if I took it slow, I could do it. I loved the finished product, but it was hard.

“I don’t know what to say here.” I nudged Deena.

“For what?”

“Everything, address, when did symptoms start, pain level.” I read the questions out loud. This whole thing was chapping my ass. “Medical history? I don’t know her medical history.” I tossed the clipboard.

“She doesn’t have one yet, calm yourself.” Deena handed the baby to me. She picked up the clipboard and filled out what she could. “There,” she said. “It’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

I gave Deena the baby and took the clipboard back out to the nurse at the front desk in the waiting area. The television on the wall was muted. I sat down and watched it with no sound, just closed-captioning. Commercials about car insurance, dog chow, and medications with horrible side effects. I wished I could snap my fingers and be back in my old life, watching television in my crappy apartment, with a beer in my hand and no responsibilities. I never should have taken that baby. I wasn’t gonna get away with it. Every bone in my body suddenly wanted to run out the door, drive away, and never look back.

“Digger?” said a woman’s voice.

“Huh?”

“Is there a Digger?” the voice called again. A nurse was standing at the security door.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Can you come with me?” she said. “Your sister was asking for you.”

“Okay.”

Another family had entered the waiting room, and they had a wailing little kid and a mopey-looking older kid. More proof that being a dad would be a pain in the ass.

The nurse led me back to the room. The baby looked much better. She wasn’t rigid anymore.

“Still yellow, but that’s jaundice, and it’ll go away,” said Deena.

“What about the stiff back?” I said.