The baby was born just after midnight, which meant there was a period of time between second and third shifts when he got to stay with his mama. It was nearly unheard of in a high-risk pregnancy like this one for the baby and the mother to have unsupervised time without machines or medication, but it was those moments she remembered the most, when he rested on her bare skin, made comfortable smacking sounds with his tiny lips and curled his fists and feet into her like a homing beacon.

They fit together as perfectly as they had for the past thirty-seven weeks. She didn't remember ever being so content, not with Timothy, who'd been colicky from day one, and certainly not with Aaron, who hadn't even bothered to show up for the birth of his second son. She knew where he'd be when she got home in two days: stretched out on the couch, a bottle in one hand and the remote in the other, nearly a permanent fixture when he wasn't working. She was lucky her mother had offered to take Timothy when she'd gone into labor early. At least she didn't have to worry about him.

She did worry about Aaron, but it had been so long since he'd really been around, she could almost write him off entirely. Almost.

And then, suddenly, there he was in the doorway, staring at her with a bewildered, hesitant light in his eyes.

"Ruth?"

He had a bouquet of balloons — they wouldn't allow flowers on this floor — clutched in his big left hand. His right clutched the door frame.

Her first instinct was to hold her newborn son close, to shield him from the touch of this man, whose hands had caused her more pain than pleasure. But then, what right did she have to keep a man from his own child?

Boys need their father, she thought. Even if they are alcoholic sons-of-bitches. She turned the baby's sleeping face out for Aaron to see.

He moved into the room and crouched down by the side of the bed, smiling. It was an honest, sober smile, one she hadn't seen on his face for months. "Can I hold him?"

"Wash your hands," she murmured.

He moved quickly into the bathroom to comply, letting the balloons skitter across the side table to rest in the corner. With damp hands, he took the wrapped bundle from her and nestled it into his arms, crooning wordlessly at him.

"How about Samuel, for your brother," he said. "He looks like a Samuel."

She couldn't help but smile. "I was thinking Noah, for yours."

"Noah." He glanced up at her, surprised. "I didn't even know you knew about him. My Ma never talks about him."

"Well, women like to share." She watched him stroke the baby's dark curls, his tiny feet, his butter-soft cheek. "She didn't want there to be secrets between us. And it's been over thirty years since she was pregnant with him, after all."

"Huh. Just when I thought I knew my old lady, she goes and surprises me." Aaron shook his head. "Yeah. I like Noah. And Samuel. Maybe one as his middle name."

"They're going to come in here in a few minutes to put him under the bilirubin lights," she said. She could already feel the lack of him against her skin. "Can I have him back?"

"What are the lights for?" He passed the bundle back gently, remembering to support his head without being asked. Sometimes he almost seemed like a real husband, a real father, when the bourbon didn't have a hold of him.

"They keep their skin from turning yellow. High levels of bilirubin can cause brain damage in infants. Too much of something can be as bad as not enough."

That was how it was with Aaron, she thought, watching him tie the balloons to a chair and try to sneak a cigarette. It was always too much or not enough of everything with him. If only she could figure out which one it was, maybe they could be okay again.

When it actually came time to fill in the birth certificate later that morning, she told herself it was because it just sounded better.

FULL NAME: Noah Aaron Puckerman

DATE OF BIRTH: July 12, 1993