Helpers LTD

Floyd S. Irving was not the kind of person to worry. His job, such as it was, did not worry him, nor did his simple home life. He lived on his own, in a small, tidy studio apartment where he cooked his soups and made his sandwiches and went to work as a truck driver for the libraries, carting books back and forth. He loved the books and loved the truck and loved the people he worked with. He was not a rich man, but he didn't worry about that. He didn't get out of his apartment very much, and some might have said he was antisocial, but it wouldn't have bothered him if he'd heard them. He was, simply, an uncomplicated man, self-assured that he enjoyed his life.

     So to say he was worried when he parked his car in the parking lot of the library that had his truck was something special.
     The woman was there, again! For the last three days he'd seen her, standing there outside the library with her arms crossed, her purse dangling from one veiny hand, and a concentrated scowl on her face. The first two days Floyd hadn't given her any thought – people commonly waited for rides outside the library – but the third day he'd noticed her watching him. This itself was not worrisome; Floyd knew that sometimes people looked at other people. He wasn't known for it, but he knew it happened. Yet the old woman bothered him for some reason he couldn't identify. She wasn't looking at him in the manner of collection, like a camera might collect images, or entertainment, like a bored person might watch a bird. No, the woman looked at him in the manner of matching, as a person might find the perfect color paint for a wall.
     Floyd dismissed the thought, and worked. It did not reoccur to him as he drove from site to site, picking up and dropping off books. He didn't think about when he went home, cooked himself a grilled cheese, and fell asleep watching Leno.
     But there she stood, just the same as always. She might even be wearing the same clothes.
     Floyd stepped out of his car, straightening his collared shirt in the morning sun. Again, her eyes tracked him as he walked toward his truck, following him until he was out of view.
     Slowly, carefully, his forehead poked out from around the corner, revealing his thinning hair until he could see her. She stared at him with the same tight-lipped, peeved look she'd had for the last four days. His head slinked back.
     He pressed himself against the shadowed brick wall of the library. Why was she looking at him? Floyd asked himself. Why was she there every day? Why did she look so angry? Why did it sound like footsteps were coming closer?
     Floyd found himself less than five feet away from the old, wrinkled, black woman – with her arms crossed and brows scrunched together – that had stood outside the library for the last four days. Floyd turned and ran to his truck, hands flapping at the ends of flailing arms. He frantically unlocked his truck, clambered in, started it, and drove away without looking in the rear mirror to see if she was still there.

Working helped to calm him. By the time it was four-thirty and the sun hung low, he drove back to the spot where he kept his truck. The woman was not there; Floyd got into his car and drove home.
     Nor did she wait outside the library when he got there the next morning. At ease, he walked to his truck and got in, a big smile on his face.
     The fact that the old woman was in the passenger seat of the truck made him a bit concerned.
     For a minute, then two, Floyd looked at the woman, who looked back. She had dark, dotted skin, deep creases on her face and hands, and was dressed in a long purple skirt and indigo blouse. Her purse, a classic thing that one could surely get lost in, was on her lap, and her bony hands clasped the straps.
     She, looking back, found Floyd Irving dressed in wrinkled khakis and a blue button-down shirt. The shiny dome of his skull could just be perceived, and his receding chin jiggled as his adam's apple bobbed.
     He found the courage to talk. "What are you doing in here? You . . . you can't be in here."
     "I want to talk to you," the woman said. She sounded old. "I've been meaning to talk to you for a few days, but I haven't had the chance. I almost had the chance yesterday, but you scarpered. You should be more respectful of your elders." She started to dig in her purse.
     "But who are you?" Floyd squeaked. The woman didn't respond; she kept rummaging. "What do you want with me?"
     "My card," the woman said. She handed Floyd – he recoiled as her hand got close – a business card. He took it, pinching it between thumb and forefinger.
     "Emma Degreff," the card read. "A proud member of Helpers LTD since 1991." Under that line read "Formerly FGM Inc."
     Floyd peered over the card at the woman. She had a face that reminded him of a displeased school marm. He looked carefully for a ruler. He didn't see one, but the purse looked like it could hold anything.
     "Now then. Floyd," the woman – Emma – said. "We think you need help with something."
     "But I don't need help with anything!" Floyd stammered. "Everything's fine! Thank you!" He looked out the windshield. Would someone from the library wonder why he hadn't left?
     "We think you do," Emma said, with a tint of disgust in her voice. "And we are never wrong."
     "Who's we?" He looked at the card. "Helpers LTD?"
     She smiled. "That's right." She stuck out her hand. Again, Floyd recoiled, fearful, but the hand only hung in midair, waiting to be grasped and shook. He clutched at it with his eyes squeezed shut. Floyd had never had a stranger introduction. "I'm here to help you out." The woman gave the very first of what Floyd could call a smile.
     "But I don't need help with nothing!" Floyd pleaded. "Why do you think I need help?"
     "Well for one, you're grammar's atrocious." The woman frowned. "Second, you're going to be late for your first pickup if you don't get going. I hope you don't mind if I tag along."
     "What if I do mind?" Floyd asked as he started the engine.
     Emma glared at him. "Then you're going to be out of luck."

As Floyd guided the truck down the many roads of his job, Emma sat next to him with her hands on her purse, not saying anything. He went to the first library and picked up the sorted cartons of books to be sent to other libraries and stored them in the back of the truck. When he got back in the truck Emma had not varied her stony gaze.
     "Is it something about my job?" Floyd asked. "I like my job. I'm good at my job."
     Emma shook her head with curled lips. "It's not your job, Floyd Irving. Keep your eyes on the road, young man!"
     "How do you know my name?" Floyd asked, after twisting the steering wheel to get back into the lane he had swerved out of.
     "The same way I knew where you work, and that you needed help!" Emma said, composing herself.
     Floyd waited to hear what this was.
     "Well I'm not going to tell you!" Emma shouted. "You young ones, always wanting to know this or that! Why can't you just let things be? My employers, and I, know things about you! Is that so hard to accept at face value?"
     "Sort of!"
     "Well, you best get over that hump, camel, 'cause you ain't getting through the desert without me!" Emma sat back in her seat with a huff. She smoothed her fraying bun with a hand. "Shoot."
     "Will you tell me what I do need help with?" Floyd asked. He swirled the steering wheel and guided the truck around a corner. "Because I can't think of anything!"
     "You young ones!" Emma nearly hollered. "Can't just let things take their course! Always have to know what's comin' or what's gonna happen next!" She jammed a hand into her purse.
     Here it comes! Floyd's mind shouted. The ruler! He pressed his body against the driver's door, but all Emma brought out was a pocket makeup mirror and lip balm.
     She tended to herself as Floyd's mind tried to keep up with the events that occurred in the truck's cab. He pulled into the next library, and jumped out of the cab. After loading and unloading the books he found that Emma had not moved, except to return the mirror and lip balm back from whatever pocket it had come. She continued to stare out the windshield as he drove.
     "Do I have to guess?" Floyd asked.
     "No you do not," Emma said. "When it happens, you'll know what it is. And I'll be right here waiting to help you."
     "You're not exactly being very helpful," Floyd muttered.
     "Son, don't you take the tone with me!" Emma said. Floyd winced. "This is a trial run to get you acc-li-ma-ted to my presence." Emma bounced her shoulders. "I ain't gonna take a bullet for you, no son, but you'll be glad I'm here when you'll dealin' with it!"

     The day progressed in this manner, making Floyd more and more upset as it went on. She wouldn't give him any hints and refused to tell him any details. Once he asked what people would think if they saw her riding in the truck with him, and all she did was laugh and say 'You young ones never see anything, not even what's right in front of your eyes!'
     Finally Floyd pulled the truck into its slot at the main library, and climbed down. The woman stepped down, displaying odd grace for her age, and walked around the front of the truck.
     "How do I know this isn't a trick?" Floyd asked. "How do I know you're not just trying to rob me?"
     Emma sighed. "Look at that tree behind you, and then you'll find out why." Floyd didn't move. Emma pointed at the tree with a frown and, sighing, Floyd looked over his shoulder. He saw nothing.
     He started to ask Emma what she was talking about, he found her gone.
     He looked around, behind, and under his truck. He looked around the side of the building, the side that had all the trees. He looked in the parking lot. The woman was gone.
     He drove home and sat on his bed and recalled everything about her that he could. Her clothes, her face, the way she talked, what she said. Then he made his supper and relaxed. As much as he could, anyway; one had to admit, his day had been a bit confusing.

The next day she waited by his truck in the clear sunlight. She wasn't wearing the same clothes, but they were similar except for the color. Instead of purple and indigo, she had a navy blue skirt and light blue blouse. Her purse was the same. Floyd frowned.
     "You're not riding with me today," he said. "If anything happens, I can handle it myself." He didn't wait for her to respond, instead getting into the truck's cab and starting it.
     "What did I tell you yesterday?" Emma, in the passenger's seat, said. Floyd jumped, briefly honking the horn. "You can't stop me from coming with you."
     "How . . . but . . . " Floyd stammered. The door hadn't opened; in fact he'd only unlocked the driver's door. She even had her seat belt on!
     "Why don't you get going? You're going to have a lot of deliveries to do today, don't want to keep the people waiting for their books."
     Shaking, Floyd started the truck.
     They drove in silence for a while, stopping at libraries, and taking on or dropping off books.
     Eventually they got to the last library on his route. Floyd jumped out, and began pulling the cartons of books out of the back of the truck.

Emma sat waiting in the front seat, using her tongue to clean between her teeth. Any minute now . . .
     Floyd pulled the door open and climbed up, sitting with the door wide and his hands in his lap. He took in a deep breath and let it out.
     Without turning, he said "there's a baby in the truck." Emma nodded slowly. Now Floyd turned and looked at her. "Emma, there's a baby in the back of the truck. In one of the cartons. It was in one of the cartons that I picked up from another library."
     Emma continued to nod, not saying anything.
     "Emma – what do I do?"
     She finally looked at him. "Oh, so now you need my help?" She tsked, shaking her head. "What did I tell you? I told you. I told you you'd need my help."
     "Okay! Yes! Fine! You were right!" Floyd said, shaking his hands. "Please, tell me what to do!"
     "Do you know which carton the library came from?" Emma asked. Floyd shook his head.
     "They're all just the same type of plastic box. The whole county uses them; they're all identical. It could have been any one of the libraries I was already at."
     Emma pushed open the passenger door. "We'll, let's have a look at the young one." She climbed down from the truck's cab and walked around to the back. The sliding tailgate was up, and inside where the dozen or so cartons that had been sent to the library they were at. Sitting in one of the cartons, chewing on a paperback, was an infant child with gossamer strands of hair. It wore a bulging pair of pants and a blue striped shirt. It's wide eyes goggled at the pair, a balding truck driver and an old black woman.
     "Come here, sweet thing," Emma cooed. The baby gazed, gnawing on the book's corner. Emma sighed, and tapped Floyd's arm. "Give me a hand up. Let's get him out of there." Floyd helped her climb into the truck and she raised the baby out of the carton. She held him at arms length and looked him over. "Looks good enough. Here, take him while I get down."
     Floyd took the child; it was heavier than he thought it would be. He supported it with his hands under its arms as Emma got out.
     "How do you know it's a he?" Floyd asked. He really couldn't tell.
     "You learn things when you've been around young ones as often as I have," Emma said, straightening her skirt. She took the baby back and placed him over her left shoulder. "Now, do you have any ideas?"
     "Me? No! I don't know what to do! This hasn't ever happened before!" Floyd said.
     Emma sighed. "Police."
     Floyd stared before jumping to action. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was an old model, perhaps a half-dozen years old. Emma saw it and tutted.
     "Son, don't you have one of those fancy new phones? The ones with the touching?" She asked, poking her finger at a phantom phone for emphasis. "I think that last time I saw a phone like that it was two-thousand and five!"
     "I don't upgrade!" Floyd said. "It works fine!" He jabbed at some of the buttons, pressing down hard to get them to work. The screen displayed a dull symbol that indicated no, it was not working fine. Floyd shook the thing; nothing changed. He gingerly looked up at Emma, who was bouncing the baby on her shoulder. She looked at him as if he had been caught with a finger full of frosting from a sibling's birthday cake.
     "The library will have somebody with a phone," she said. "I'll take care of junior here, you go ask." Floyd nodded and set off.
     He was halfway across the parking lot before he realized it was deserted. There was not a single car. He went to the front door of the library and rattled it; it was locked. He knocked, pounded on the glass, but the interior was dark and empty. He stepped back and stared in disbelief. What was going on?
     he looked to his right, at the second set of double doors. He found a sheet of paper taped to the inside, and read it. "Library closed due to power failure," it read. "Will reopen on Monday. Overdue items will be given a grace period."
     Floyd tapped on the glass with one finger, lips curled into a grimace.
     "You can't get in, can you?" Emma asked when Floyd walked back. He shook his head. "Any other way in? Don't you have to get in to deliver books if the library is closed?" She asked.
     Floyd grabbed his ring of keys from the truck and picked out the one for the warehouse entry to this library. He pushed the door open, revealing the library's cluttered warehouse.
     Which, Floyd was dismayed to discover, contained a locked door he couldn't get through and no telephone. He'd seen this room a thousand times – maybe more – and pulled angrily on the door that led to the main section of the library. The library had always been open, or at least occupied, when he'd visited. It had never occurred to him to look for a phone.

     Even worse, he realized as he walked back to the truck, this library was in a rather rural area; not many places around him would be open for business and willing to let him use a phone.
     "No luck, eh?" Emma asked. The child dozed on her shoulder. "Perhaps you have some other ideas?"
     "Aren't you supposed to have ideas?" He asked. "You're the helper!"
     "I'm helping, aren't I?" She said, tapping the child's back. It gurgled out a noise. "If I wasn't here, you'd have to take care of the child and try to figure out how to get him back where he belongs! Now apologize!"
     Floyd bent his head. "Sorry," he said. "But I don't know what else to do!"
     "We passed some houses a little bit ago. Maybe one of them would have someone that would let us use a telephone."
     "Don't you have a phone?" Floyd asked. Emma waved a hand and made a dismissing sound.
     "I got no use for those contraptions. Let's get in the truck and see if we can't find someone willing to help us." She walked toward the front.
     After he loaded and unloaded the books from the warehouse of the library, Floyd got into the driver's seat and found her already buckled, cradling the baby with practiced ease. "Don't drive too fast. Junior doesn't have a belt; we don't want him flying out of my hands now."
     The knowledge that a mistake driving could hurt the baby did not help Floyd. He shifted the truck and it jerked forward; sweat broke out on his forehead. He scooted forward onto the road and headed toward the houses that Emma mentioned.
     He pulled to a stop in front of the first house. As far as he could tell, there was only one street of houses that ran parallel to the main road.
     He walked up to the house, leaving Emma and the baby in the truck. He rang the doorbell, trying not to look threatening. His truck, unmarked, was parked on the street.
     An old woman came to the door. She made Emma look like a young, fresh bride. Deep, cavernous lines creased her face, magnifying-glass spectacles turned her eyes into huge circles, and her arthritis-stricken hands clutched unseen handlebars at chest height.
     "Ricky?" The woman asked, shaky voice barely making it out of her mouth. "Is that you? I always knew you'd come back for me. Take me into your arms and kiss me." The woman tottered forward, mouth pursing into a stretched smooch. Floyd jumped back.
     "Ma'am!" Floyd shouted, startling the woman. "My name is Floyd! I have an emergency! I need to use your phone!"
     "Phone?" The woman seemed confused. "Don't talk like that Ricky, you know phones won't be invented for a few more years. Why don't you come in and have some absinthe with me."
     "No, ma'am, I have to use your phone! I found a child!"
     "Child?" Floyd thought for a moment that he had gotten through to her. His face fell when she said. "No, I don't have any children. Not until you give me some, Ricky."
     "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am," Floyd said, turning around and walking back to the truck.
     "But I finally have that car with the Corinthian leather!" The woman yelled as he walked past the truck and across the street to the house on the other side. Nobody was home, or they simply didn't answer when he rang the bell. He went back to the truck.
     "No luck, I suspect," Emma said.
     "How'd you guess?" Floyd asked, starting the truck.
     "I could see you through the window," Emma said, pointing. Floyd sighed and puttered the truck forward until he was in front of the next house.
     He rang the doorbell, and immediately heard shouting. He shrank away from the door as it was wrenched open by a man that seemed to made of beef. His face and neck were red and veined, and his massive chest threatened to burst open his white tank top.
     "Whattaya want?" The man-bull roared. Floyd felt drops of spit rain down on him.
     "I-I-I just need use your phone. Mine's broken you see, and-"
     "And why should I let a little punk like you into my house – my castle?!" He pointed behind him, and Floyd caught a glimpse of intense squalor before the man stood in his way again.
     "I-I found a child! I don't know where his parents are and I want to tell the police!"
     The words had an incredible effect on the man. He went from a raging hyperbole of anger to a withered, weeping soul, leaning on Floyd and dripping tears and snot down the back of his shirt.
     "A child!" The man said, sniffing. "Is she a little piece of heaven with strawberry-blonde hair, like her mother? Does she love to grasp your little finger and put it in her mouth? Does she like yellow flowers and cheerios and puppy dogs?"
     "Uh . . . er . . . no. It's a boy," Floyd said.
     The man reeled back, gripping Floyd's shoulders with ham hands. His face filled with blood. Floyd's eyes sprang wide, feeling himself go helpless and limp. He was nearly lifted off his feet.
     "It's . . . a . . . boy?" The man squeezed the words out between rows of yellow teeth. "IT'S . . . A . . . BOY?!" He shook Floyd, and Floyd's head snapped back and forth once.
     "Yes?" Floyd whispered.
     "Oh, well okay then," the man said, dropping Floyd to his bottom on the walk. "Sorry, I haven't paid my phone bill in six years." He slammed the door with Floyd still sitting.
     Floyd limped to the truck, rubbing his behind. The next three houses all seemed to contain a human just as dysfunctional as the two previous. One was filled to the very brim with cats, another held a trio of college students that looked at Floyd with uneven focus through red-rimmed eyes. When he asked about a phone at the first house he was handed a cat toy. At the second house he was given a brick with the word "fone" scrawled on it with a marker.
     At the third house he heard something before even ringing the doorbell. It sounded to him like something being sharpened. He decided not to intrude.
     And, when he rang the doorbell for the last house on the block, he was greeted by, as far as he could tell, the very same woman as the first house. Without saying a word he turned around and got back in the truck.
    
Floyd began to harbor the suspicion that he was cursed. It first appeared when he was trying to change the truck's tire.
     They were driving along a lonely county road, devoid of cars. The sun was beginning to set. Floyd realized that the other libraries were probably wondering where he was, and then realized that if he went back along his path of stops he would eventually find where the baby had been left.
     "Nothing else seems to be working," Emma said when he asked her if it sounded like a good idea. "Go ahead."
     So he started driving the few miles back toward the last library they'd been at. They were halfway when the truck started to bobble and pull, and a loud thumping sound came from the right side. Floyd frantically pulled over, and went to inspect the tire, and found a nail thrust deep into the tire's dark surface. The rubber had shredded and pulled away, partially revealing the outer rim.
     Floyd had gone to get a spare from the back of the truck, and was working too replace it.
     When the cursed thought hit him, he worked his neck up to look at Emma, who held the child and leaned against the outside of the cab next to him. After a moment she noticed him.

     "Don't you give me that narrow eyeball, boy!" She said. "You'd still be running around like a chicken with your head cut off at that other library if it wasn't for me!"
     "I noticed that-" Floyd began.
     "And don't give me that 'It's your fault this is happening' flot! All of you young ones say the same thing! 'None of this started happening until you showed up! I think that this is your fault!'" Emma shook her head. "You would have found this babe one way or the other, and you should thank your lucky stars that I was here, otherwise you'd have no clue in heaven what to do! Now get that wheel offa there so we can get going! Humph!" She snorted. "It's getting cold out here! I bet the mister has a nice stew cooked up by now."
     Floyd jolted in surprise. "You're married?"
     Emma showed off her left hand; Floyd saw a circle of gold glint in the low light. "He liked it so he put a ring on it. You know that song?" Floyd shook his head. "I liked it the first moment I heard it. It's got a beat."
     Floyd shook his head and tried to tighten a lug nut on the new tire. "Righty-tighty lefty-loosy," Emma said. Floyd muttered something under his breath that he hoped she wouldn't hear. After a quarter of an hour of grunts and strains, the spare tire was on. Floyd let the jack down and threw the old tire and the tools in the back.
     "What do you think his name is?" Emma asked as they drove.
     "What?"
     "I said, what do you think his name is? He's got to have a name," She balanced the baby on her knees. "I think it's Mandy."
     "Mandy? That's a girl's name," Floyd said. Emma – and the baby – looked at him. "I hope he isn't named that. He's going to get teased a lot."
     "Are you so sure?" Emma said. "Mandy's a real name. It's short for things like Emmanuel and Armand. You should read more. You're surrounded by books all day and you don't read them."
     "I can't read when I'm driving."
     "Books on tape then," She said. Shortly, she followed it with "oh dear."
     Floyd was about to ask why she had said it when the smell hit. His eyes bleared and watered, making the road in front of him turn into a gray mess. The truck started to swerve on the road, and his tongue launched out of his mouth. He gave a gurgling, coughing cry just as the baby started to whine. "You'll want to pull over," Emma said, unaffected by the weapons-grade chemicals that had been released in the cab. Floyd pulled over – again – and stopped the truck. "Come with me," Emma said when she stepped down and went around to the back. Floyd followed her.
     At her indication, he pulled up the tailgate on the truck. Emma laid the baby on the bed and, after pulling off his pants, undid the diaper.
     The next thing Floyd knew, he was on the road behind the truck staring at the fading sky. Emma used a magazine to fan him. When she saw him coming around, she slapped him on the cheek in a tender way, and waited for his eyes to come into focus.
     "Powerful stuff, isn't it?" She said. "Mom and Dad need to watch his diet a little closer."
     "Musmphugnt," Floyd said.
     "I had an extra in my purse," Emma said, answering the question that had barely been coherent in Floyd's head, much less when he spoke it. "You'd be surprised how handy a diaper can be in a lot of situations. Not counting it's intended use, it could be a bandage or a tissue, or a hat if things get cold enough." Floyd sat up and saw her pick up the baby. In her hand was the used diaper; the stuff of legends and bedtime stories. "I guess that you don't want this in the cab with you." Emma looked around. They were surrounded by weeds and grass. "Don't know where to put it, though."
     "Just throw it somewhere," Floyd said, waving his hand. He stood and wobbled; he could still sense the overwhelming smell that had been released.
     "Well, I can't do that, that's littering! Didn't your momma teach you anything?" I'll just keep it in the back of the truck here. Next time we see somewhere it can go, I'll tell you to stop."
     "In the back of the truck? It can't go there! It'll . . . " Floyd made a fluttering, fingering motion with his flat hand to display his general displeasure at the thought of the diaper rolling around in the back of the truck. "Think of the books!"
     Emma stuck a hand into her purse. "I've got some scotch tape," she said. "That'll keep it wrapped up tight. The outside of the diaper isn't dirty at all; it's just the inside."
     Floyd's slack jaw quivered as he watched Emma wrap the old diaper in tape and set it gently on the floor of the truck. Floyd could swear he heard a squish.
     Emma turned and saw him leering at the diaper. "It'll be fine."
     He followed her back to the truck's cab. The baby, peering over her shoulder with sleepy eyes, inspected Floyd. Floyd made a face at it, a face that let him express how he felt about this whole mess: his lips were a bulbous curve, his tongue was pushed out between his teeth, and his eyes were wide. The child did nothing more than point with an unsteady hand. The other was shoved into his mouth.
     They made their way toward their destination. Floyd now had to think about not only the baby and the tire that he would need replaced, but the diaper that was – he swallowed – rolling around inside the back of his truck, most likely smooshing itself up against the books and DVDs that were his cargo. He was sure to take a bucket of soapy water to the truck when this was said and done.
     The child turned grumpy as they drove. The sky was darker now, and Floyd switched on the lights.
     "Almost done now," Emma said, softly. Floyd looked at her. He couldn't tell if she was talking to him or the baby. She looked up at him. Her eyes held a softness he hadn't seen before, a wish that no one would be alone when they needed help.
     And then she yelled. "Keep your eyes on the road, fool!"
     The truck swerved and pitched as Floyd wrenched the wheel, keeping it in the correct lane.
     "What were you thinking, doing that? You could have gotten us killed! Shoot!" She yelled. Even the baby seemed to be looking at Floyd with an indicting look. He hunched over the wheel and stared down the road.
     Soon they reached one of the libraries. Cars filled it and people milled around. Floyd saw flashing lights on some of the cars, and his chest seized.
     "They won't think you did anything," Emma said, sitting up. "Oh, they'll have reason to suspect you, but nothing will ever show up. It's just a case of a babe wandering away with arms and legs that have just learned to crawl, and it managing to end up somewhere strange."
     "What do I do?" Floyd asked. "What do I say?"
     Emma handed him the baby. "You say 'Is anybody looking for this young man?'" She sat back. "That's the last thing I can help you with. Go on now." She smiled at him.
     Floyd parked in the back of the lot and got out with the baby held awkwardly. He made his way toward where the people seemed clumped. He spotted several policemen and a family that seemed more emotional than most.
     "Uh . . . 'scuse me?" He called. One of the policemen turned and saw him. "Is anyone looking for this young man?"

After being piled on by the ecstatic family, questioned by the police – yes, I did try to contact you, but my cell phone broke and nobody would let me use a phone and then I had a flat – and interviewed by the press – local man saves baby – he was allowed to go back to his truck. Emma was gone; he hadn't seen her leave.

     He drove to one of the libraries that he still needed to deliver to, and got there with an hour to spare before it closed. He got out, and walked around to the back. He slid the tailgate up and reached out in the darkness to take the first carton.
     His hand closed on something soft and wet.