Through the glass, he sees her check the numbers of the wooden cribs. She moves past one, not his, another, not his, another, not his, another, not his.
透过玻璃窗，他看到她查看木头小床上的号码。她经过一个，不是他的，又一个，不是他的，又一个，不是他的，又一个，还不是他的。
It is the 1920s, a crowded hospital in one of the poorest sections of the city. Eddie's father smokes cigarettes in the waiting room, where the other fathers are also smoking cigarettes. The nurse enters with a clipboard. She calls his name. She mispronounces it. The other men blow smoke. Well?
这是二十世纪二十年代，在城里一个最贫穷区域里的一家拥挤的医院中，爱迪的父亲坐在等候室里，像其他父亲们一样，吸着香烟。一个护士手里拿着夹纸写字板走了进来。她喊了他的名字，读错了音。其他男人们吐着烟雾。那又怎么样？
He raises his hand.
他举起手。
The father breathes heavily, nods his head. For a moment, his face seems to crumble, like a bridge collapsing into a river. Then he smiles.
爱迪的父亲喘着粗气，点点头。一时间，他的脸似乎沉了下来，好像一座桥垮了掉进河里。然后，他笑了。
He follows her down the hallway to the newborns' nursery. His shoes clap on the floor.
他跟在她的后面，顺着走廊，来到了新生儿育婴室。他的鞋在地板上啪嗒作响。
"Congratulations," the nurse says.
“恭喜了，”护士说道。
"Wait here," she says.
“在这儿等吧，”她说道。
She stops. There. Beneath the blanket. A tiny head covered in a blue cap. She checks her clipboard again, then points.
她停下脚步。在那儿，在毯子下面，一个戴着蓝帽子的小脑袋。她又核实了一下她的写字板，然后用手指了指。
His.
他的孩子。