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Early in May, giant hailstorms pelted the hills of San Andreas, turning them lush and green as Washington's Olympic Peninsula, but where the old man lived he didn't reap the benefits -- only more weeds between the cracks of the pavement. He kept his mind active; he'd promised himself he'd live the life of the mind when the body failed, focus in on the small things: the beauty of a spider web. The taste of chocolate ice cream, the only thing decent they serve in this stinkin' joint. Yet it was hard not to want to walk towards the water and keep on walking, now that he couldn't read even the large print books.

He spent most nights with his chair pulled close to his window, watching the baby slot across the street at General Hospital. Puddles glowed under street lights, passing cars made whooshing sounds. The rain had stopped a few hours ago but he still couldn't sleep; familiar insomnia. Afternoons were a better time for sleeping; in the warmth and in the safety. His best and worst times were in the middle of the night like this, with the fabric of the universe thinned and translucent.

He watched the baby slot. They left their babies there, those young mothers. Foundlings like they used to leave on orphanage steps, but there were no orphanages anymore. No bulrushes, either. But there was the baby slot. No questions asked, no ramifications, stipulated by a new law designed to lessen the number of newborns, placentas still attached, dying in dumpsters and public restrooms. Like an after hours bank depository. A metal drawer you pulled open. Inside, a small bassinet, snug and warm. Closing the drawer rang an alarm in the nursery; a nurse would come immediately to assess the child, swaddle her, coo and cuddle. The child would have a new life.

They'd installed the baby slot just weeks ago, and now the mothers came from all the cities and towns within miles. But while the old ladies in the dining room chirped and grumbled about such a thing, the old man could see the mothers' point.

He put himself in the shoes of a fifteen-year-old underprivileged white girl with parents so strung out on drugs that they couldn't take care of her, and rarely did. He named her Valerie. Valerie lived in foster care, in a house where too many kids stayed. She ate cereal from industrial-sized boxes and lunches of white bread and Kraft American cheese or Skippy. Every meal for seven kids. The mom available for hugs sometimes. If she was lucky, she didn't get felt up or worse by her "brothers" or "dad" too many times. She didn't do well in school. She was heavy, and she hid her pregnancy until she couldn't, for that meant more trouble. She'd seen it too many times. And it did mean trouble. Social workers shaking their damn heads and boys hitting on her harder 'cause now she couldn't get pregnant.

The old man imagined her. He heard Valerie talk, a low voice:

"That hospital is crazy. That nurse say I'm too fat, eat more vegetables. I don't like vegetables. I drink milk--I got those WIC coupons. So then, that nurse say no Diet Pepsi, but I can't drink milk all day. Diet Pepsi is diet, and she say I'm too fat. Then that doctor, fancy shoes under her white coat, 'Are you smoking?' I know better than smoking."

He was watching the baby slot when a car roared up to it, an old Camaro with music blaring and a smashed-up driver's side. The mother sat in the passenger seat for a while, still weak from birthing, until the driver turned off the engine, leaving the music on, and walked around to her side. He helped her out. He was white, she was brown. So it wasn't the old man's Valerie; another mother, another story. She carried her baby in something blue. She walked wide, her bottom still hurting. The old man turned out the light in his room and sat by the window in the dark.

The girl stood at the slot. He saw her wide back, her long dark hair. Cradling the baby in her left arm, she opened the slot with her right, and placed the baby inside. She turned, hunched back to the car. The driver was already inside, slouched low, one arm outstretched and balanced on the wheel. The bass thumped. The girl strained to shut the door so the driver reached across her, and then the car pulled out, tires giving a slight squeal, a slight spray of puddle water. But she had not closed the baby slot. The baby lay in an open drawer, in the moist night air.

The old man watched the baby slot. No one came out to claim the baby. Cars passed. No one came; he had to close the drawer. He turned from the window, turned on the light, put one foot in each calfskin slipper and took his overcoat from its hanger in the closet and his keys. He put on his beret. He didn't bother with his walker. Georgia, the night aide, wasn't at the front desk. Out of the lobby, across the street, picking carefully across the sidewalks cracked from the rumbling of the earth.

The baby was still there, a tiny bundle well-lit in the open drawer. It looked at him with dark eyes. It was wrapped in a woman's blue sweater. The old man put his hand on the baby slot to close it but he couldn't break that solid gaze. He waited for the baby to make a sound. Then he picked up the baby with both hands--hands didn't forget how to pick up a baby--and held it close. The sweater was damp and smelled like almonds. The baby smelled like warm milk. Nobody was coming--long intervals between the cars which whooshed past, their drivers oblivious.

The warmth and smell of the baby. He didn't remember getting back across the street, through the lobby, up the elevator, into his room. But he placed the baby--still silent with Bing cherry eyes--on the couch to look at it and then the baby reacted, tightly closing its eyes, pushing its round cheeks higher, and crying.

The old man's heart leapt with fear and guilt. "Shh, baby, baby," he held the baby against him again. Jiggling. "Shh, now. We'll get you some milk. We'll get you some diapers. We'll get you a mommy. Shh, now. Shh, now." And the baby quieted, a few quick snortles, and slept.

The baby didn't wake up when he unwrapped it from the sweater. Underneath, a damp t-shirt. In it, a little boy, skinny legs curled up, the cord still shiny sky blue and too long where it was cut. A thin white film caked in the crooks of his elbows and knees, his black hair stuck to his head. His fingers, long and delicate, curled into loose fists. The baby felt a little cold under the old man's trembling hand. A baby needed warmth.

He opened his shirt and pressed the baby against him, skin to skin. Against his skin, new life. A small foot kicked. A tiny hand waved. The child's head nuzzled a little, he murmured. After a long time, the old man needed to piss and remembered he was old. I can't take care of a baby. I need milk and diapers. They won't let me keep it. He placed the sleeping child carefully down on the couch again, on his back, legs froglike, arms wide. He tucked the lap blanket around and under him, and propped a couch pillow so that if the baby woke, he wouldn't roll off. He carried the t-shirt to the hamper. It uncrumpled as he threw it in, and he looked at it on top of the pile of laundry, in marking pen written across the front: This is Juan.

He stood by the hamper looking over at the baby on the couch. Then he walked back to the couch, picked up sleeping Juan wrapped in the blanket, and carried him to the elevator and down to the lobby. He walked slowly so he wouldn't drop him. A tail of blanket dragged. His knee throbbed.

At the desk: "Georgia, I found a baby. This is Juan."

"Oh, Mr. Martin! Where'd you get that baby?"

"Across the street. The mother didn't close the slot."

"Oh, Jesus. Okay, let me see that baby, and you sit down, Mr. Martin." She came out from around the desk, a bottom-heavy woman in her fifties, and took the baby from his blanket.

The old man knew that was the last time he'd hold the baby, now there would be fuss and questioning. He felt tired. "It's a boy. His name is Juan. You tell them that, Georgia. His mother wrote it on the shirt."

"Oh, Jeez." The baby was awake again. She jiggled it inexpertly, moving back around the desk to the phone.

"I think he's hungry," he said.

"I better call the hospital, they can get him. You can go to your room, Mr. Martin. Do you need something?"

"I'll wait here. They're going to want to ask."

Georgia stood inexpertly jiggling. The baby started to wail in her arms, a thin, newborn cry. Georgia jiggled, and glared at the old man.

Two nurses arrived within minutes, wrapped Juan in a receiving blanket, huddled with Georgia. One walked quickly out the door and back to the hospital with the baby. The other knelt in front of the lobby chair where the old man had perched himself, his couch blanket on his knees.

"Mr. Martin? I'm Patricia. I'm one of the baby nurses at General. Can I ask you a few quick questions?" So it went. And she even went upstairs with him, gooey sweet as caramel sauce, and took the t-shirt and sweater the baby had been wrapped in.

"We save these clothes for the children."

"You see, his name is Juan." He showed her the writing on the shirt. "Will you call him that?"

"We'll write it in his intake record, Mr. Martin. We really, really appreciate your concern."

And finally, the scolding he'd expected.

"Next time, Mr. Martin, if this ever happens again, you just close the drawer. Okay? The action of closing the drawer sets off an alarm, and we're right there to take care of baby, okay? Do you understand what I'm saying?" Nurse Patricia's smile exposed her teeth, kept her eyes fixed and glittery.

"Okay."

"Okay, Mr. Martin. You get some sleep now."

By lunch time the next day, everybody knew about it. Georgia had a big mouth. Another one a half-bubble off. His head was fuzzy, and he couldn't think. Damned head. His other family, in the fairy tale he knew wasn't real but kept happening, came into his room. The teenage son wore the same size shoes as he did and kept stealing them. He talked on the phone a lot and rang up the old man's phone bill. Patty came in and stole his wires so the TV wouldn't work. It was unacceptable. He went down to lunch and everybody was eating breakfast food so he ordered eggs. They didn't serve eggs here, they told him. But he could have a sandwich if he wanted. He didn't want a sandwich. If he wanted a sandwich, he'd go to the damn deli.

"Mr. Martin, this isn't your seating." Graciella stood in her green smock in front of him.

"I can't sit here?"

Graciella smiled. "Are you hungry?"

"You tell me it's mealtime, I eat. I want chocolate ice cream."

The women at his table were a bunch of damn biddies. That one Caddy, 96 years old, and her son visited every day. He had family visit every day, the fairy tale side of the family. Patty's kids, trouble, all of them.

The biddies didn't joke with him today. Not even Carole, the one who had crawled into his bed a few months ago, her breath smelling of Fixodent. They'd pleasured each other. As much to prove they still could. Now she was only talking about him.

"This one stole a baby," she said.

"Whatsa mattah, shweet-haht, you don't want me as your boyfriend anymore?"

She looked away, her mouth working. "Forgot to take his memory pills yesterday." The others clucked their disapproval. They all saw too much of each other here, the oldness, the weakness, the urine splotches on the back of skirts and pants. Joe, the old doctor who used to sit at this table, killed himself three weeks ago, saving up his meds and taking them all at once. Leaving him alone with the biddies.

"Mr. Martin," Valerie said in his ear, "you won't catch me getting old. Old sucks. Live hard, die young, that's my motto."

He remembered Valerie, standing in the English Lit class he taught at Berkeley High, railing against Shakespeare. "I can't even read American good enough, you want me to read this crap?" Leaving; a series of A's on his ledger--A for absence, not excellence--before he got the note to remove her from the rolls; she'd disappeared.

Back when they lived in Berkeley, a hummingbird made her demitasse nest in the vine next to his window overlooking a busy street, six feet above the pavement. Every day they'd watched, he and Bonnie. First, two eggs like mini Jordan almonds. Then two tiny black squirms of life. They got bigger; the fuzz of feathers, tiny yellow-green beaks, long necks, bulging, still-closed eyes. He expected something bad to happen to them--the swinging open of the window, the kids playing ball on the street. It was impossible for humans to let them survive.

Bonnie fretted nights, "Stupid little bird," to build her nest so publicly. When it rained unseasonably, Bonnie tossed and turned. He worried, too. Cars. Children. Swinging windows.

When they were nine days old, ants swarmed the nest, a thick coat covering the blind, wiggling babies. One baby thrashed its way out of the nest and fell to the pavement. The other, Bonnie pulled from the nest (little feet hanging on). They brushed ants off both babies, put them in a soup bowl with a napkin, and drove them to the pet hospital. The mother bird left after that. An hour after the babies were gone, the ants stopped their swarm. Not cars or children; ants.

He missed her baby, Valerie's baby, Juan. The smell of his soft head. That night he watched the baby slot. The next morning after breakfast, he went to the hospital without signing out of the home though he pretended to, hovering over the clipboard at the main desk.

Across the street, and in through the whooshing of the main hospital entrance. As he looked for the nursery, the big guard at the desk stopped him.

"Excuse me sir, who are you here to see?"

"Hey, Brother," the old man said. "How's it shakin'?"

"Doing alright," the guard said. "Who are you here to see?"

"Baby came in through the baby slot the other night." It was only partially a lie. "Where's the nursery?"

The guard sized him up. "Sir, I can't send you upstairs unless you're visiting a particular patient."

"I am. It's a particular patient. Juan."

"Juan? Is that the last name?"

"Doe."

The guard checked his list. "We don't have a Juan Doe. Are you a friend of the family? Do you know who placed him here?"

"He's a baby slot baby."

"Believe me, I am sympathetic, but I'm just doing my job."

"Valerie dropped him off last night, and I found him."

"I'm sorry."

"Hey man, can I talk to that baby nurse, Patricia?"

The guard stared at him. "Let me make a phone call."

The old man stood waiting as the guard called, fatigue in every part of him. His knee throbbed. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe into the pain as the Wednesday afternoon yoga teacher had taught him.

"Go on up, sir. Fifth floor, first door on your left. They'll talk to you there."

"Mr. Martin, please come in." He wasn't at the nursery, he was at Nurse Patricia's office. He stood in front of her desk, laden with inspirational phrases, pictures of weddings and graduations.

"You have to understand why we don't let just anybody up to see the babies, Mr. Martin. It's for security. Now we're not pressing charges on you for taking the baby …"

"What? I …"

"…but we can't let you into the nursery, Mr. Martin."

"But can you tell me if Juan is okay?"

"I'm afraid I can't release information about a patient, it's the law. Only if you are related to the child."

Her eyes were fixed on him, but her hands were restless, wanting to work. The old runaround. This woman's hair was too big.

"Then nobody can know what happens to him? No checks and balances, ways to keep tabs on the system?"

"Unless you're the mother…

"Or the father?"

"Are you the father?"

He stared at her. She looked at him, head cocked to one side, waiting.

"Unless you're one of the parents, sorry, no."

He nodded, lowered his head.

"What happens to the babies?" he asked.

"They're assessed and cared for, and when they're stable, they're placed in foster homes. Some of them aren't all right, then they spend time in the ICN."

"Is Juan alright?"

"I'm not sure which one is Juan, Mr. Martin. Unless you're a family member."

"But nobody is a family member except Valerie. I saw Valerie drop him in the baby slot."

"Is Valerie your daughter? Somebody you know?"

"I… I found him." His voice shook and his hands shook and he couldn't stop them. He remembered being a child, making a drawing, a gesture that took all of him, and he'd look at the results and see only a squiggle, what happened in his head unable to translate to paper. It was the same thing now, the slow journey back to inarticulation.

She stood. "Mr. Martin, it's time to go home now. Shall I call Georgia to come get you?"

"No." His heart hurt. Juan was gone, not Juan-ted. But he wanted him. Bonnie would have wanted him. Being old and being dead were no reason not to want new life.

That night he watched the baby slot. Valerie stood behind him, trying to explain herself.

"I know I can't take care of it but I made a strong baby. I didn't do drugs, only some beers that time on Tasha's birthday. I hope he goes to a nice family, a momma and a daddy."

"He's going to foster care, Valerie."

He heard her sobs but he knew better than to turn around.

His window, under a streetlight so that every night was a full-moon night; full moon dreams of wandering, werewolves, vampires, dead children. In the dark, he would be able to sleep.

He closed his eyes and then it was dark.

The baby needed warmth. Fumbling with buttons, he opened his shirt, lifted Juan against him, feeling the weight of the baby, his soft skin, the flutter of Juan's sleeping hands, the quiet in, out of his warm baby breath against his chest. The warmth spread, opening his heart; love and grief were the same thing. They both slept.