Once, when I was twelve, my father swiped the glass slider away and stumbled into the house. His eyes were closed tight, and he was possessed of a preternatural calm that was so calm it ceased to be a comfort and pushed back through the membrane into a pallid and clammy unease. "Get your mother," he said, and I did. He said that he needed her to drive him to the hospital. She made a sound like those crying dolls. It doesn't really sound like a baby. It sounds like something else.
