By late morning we've sat Alex up and changed him into the T-shirt on which Jill drew an elaborate chicken. Alex looks us over as mom squeaks a yellow plastic duck. Jill says the scan will tell us nothing about Alex that wasn't there yesterday, that isn't there today and that won't be there tomorrow. Today they wheel in a boy with dark hair, a nice smile and what look like zipper marks across his forehead. As Jill and I wait, the room clicks and whizzes with the noises of bags being unpacked.
Drawers slide open.
I watch a mom from Jersey pause over her unpacked toothpaste and glance at the railings of Alex's crib. She sees piles of Alex's Beanie Babies. The nurse and doctor cluster over the Indian girl brought in right after the boy with the nice smile. She smiles, showing a gap the size of Letterman's in her teeth, and climbs into the wheelchair. By 1 p.m. there's still no word.