The doctor was detached and clinical as he took Leonard's temperature, a real professional, Joyce thought. She watched in amazement; it was hard to believe that just hours ago, the little baby who twisted and squirmed on John's knees with a thermometer up his bum was a 44-year-old plumber from Queens.
Poor Leonard was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, and had become a small part of a government study that was so secret, only a handful of people knew of it's existence.
"His temperature is 98.1 degrees," he said to Joyce as she wrote the numbers down on a clipboard. The doctor rolled him over on his back and put both of his index fingers in the tiny palms. He nodded to himself as the little translucent fingers closed tightly around his digit. He took the end of his pen, and traced a line on the sole of each foot, noting the toes that curled in response. Wrinkling his nose just a bit, he rolled Leonard's tiny scrotum between thumb and finger, searching for and finding two tiny testicles.
"You've thrown away his clothes?" the doctor asked.
"Yes doctor. I put them in the incinerator myself."
"Good. See if you can get some formula into him, and put him in the nursery with the others. I'll look in on him before I leave for the day."
Leonard found himself quickly ensconced in a cotton
diaper
and a blue sleeper. She carried him through the door marked 'Authorized
Personnel Only', the door that he'd opened by accident earlier
in the day. The room with all the baby-filled bassinets. Dozens
of bassinets. Dozens of crying babies.