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Baldwin stays the night but does not sleep. His son does not sleep but paces and surfs the computer almost violently, the volume too high. The sounds of websites booming, fading, jabbering, rapping, fade and swell as Danny paces and kicks at debris on the floor.

Near 5 a.m. Baldwin drifts off long enough to dream. His son, born just seconds earlier, has slipped off of the delivery table. His mother gropes, helpless from above, while Baldwin looks drunkenly down at his child: pale and bloody with the umbilical cord bisecting his slick body like a wound. Baldwin says something to his son that only makes sense later, and even then, barely. In the dream he says, “Let me get another sheet.”

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