“I’ll start setting up the file index right now,” Brenda said.

By two fifteen, Dr.

Marcus Thorne was sitting on the woven rug in my private office, his scrub coat folded over the back of an armchair.

Ten-month-old Noah sat between his feet, stacking three smooth maple blocks before knocking them over with his palm.

Marcus picked up the worn vintage picture book about the little tugboat, the one I had rescued from the baby boutique months earlier, and opened it across his knees.

“The little tugboat worked in the cold harbor all day long,” Marcus read in his low, deliberate, raspy voice.