The deputy looked at Michael’s boots, his worn shirt, the old cap crushed in his hands. “You understand child services will have to be involved,” he said.
Michael nodded. He did not argue. He did not beg.
But when the nurse tried to take the baby from his arms, the newborn let out a cry so sharp that Michael’s body moved before his mind did. He held him closer. The nurse softened. “Just a minute,” she said.
Michael sat in the hospital waiting room until after midnight, holding a paper cup of coffee that went cold before he drank it. A television played in the corner with the volume too low to understand. The floor smelled like bleach. Every time someone walked past with a clipboard, he looked up.
The next morning, county child services opened a file.
By noon, the town had opened its mouth.
Small towns do not need facts when they already have opinions. At the corner store, while Michael bought cloth diapers on credit, the men by the coffee machine lowered their voices just enough to make sure he heard. Michael’s lost his mind.
