The first time Simon hears the baby cry, he shrugs it off.
Sure, it sounds a little close, but maybe some parent is going on an early morning walk around the neighborhood. Maybe it's just something on the TV he has playing in the background as he lifts the weights he keeps stacked in the corner of his bare-bones living room.
Or maybe he's finally losing it. That's also on the table.
Then he hears it again, and now that he's listening for it, his ears pick up more detail. It's too clear to be the TV, too close to be on the sidewalk.
And it's just getting louder.
With an uneasy feeling, he sets down a dumbbell and wipes his brow before heading to his front door. A peek out of the nearby window doesn't show him anything, but when he puts his hand on the doorknob, a piercing wail, seemingly just on the other side, almost makes him jump.
Simon wrenches his door open, and he doesn't see anything -- not until he looks down.
There, faintly lit by the sun that's just breaking over the horizon, is a box. And inside the box, red-faced and screaming, is a baby.
His brain is still trying to catch up, but his body reacts. He's never considered himself paternal, not for a moment, but it must be some basic human instinct that makes him kneel and scoop up the child. He's careful for the head, because that seems appropriate, and cradles the baby to his chest, doing a stilted little bouncing motion.
"All right, tot," he mutters, shifting one hand to pat the infant's back before reconsidering. "Come on, come on."
He stands in his doorway, going through a swift circuit of the bouncing, a kind of rocking, a little twirl that he's not quite sure what he thought would accomplish, but nothing works. The sun keeps rising, and the baby keeps crying.
At a loss, Simon holds his little visitor at arms length, hoping to see something, some clear indicator of what's wrong. All he sees are the chubby cheeks, even redder than before, a dusting of light hair over an absurdly small head, and the baby's body completely covered in a pair of pajamas, white ones dotted with designs of colorful owls.
"Quiet now, little bird," he mumbles, bringing the baby back to his chest.
"Got a new roommate? Can you tell them to maybe wait until at least 7:00 am to start raging?"
Simon takes a moment before turning to you, standing just as he knows you will be on your side of the fence. He's already dealing with an abandoned baby on his doorstep, he really doesn't need the stress of dealing with his cute neighbor who he's secretly in love with thrown on top.
When he finally looks at you, he swallows. Your arms are resting on the top of the fence, a playful little grin etched on your face. He sees your robe too, too short to be all that decent for outside the house, and bare legs leading down to slippered feet.
You have no right looking so good this early. Not when he's having a crisis.
Still, he's drawn to you, just like he has been since you moved into the house beside his over a year ago. So he finally moves from his doorway, still holding the screaming baby, and goes to the fence.
"Somebody abandoned it," he explains, leaning in so you can hear him over the cries.
Your smile drops immediately. He watches as you make your way past your gate, take the short trip down the sidewalk and enter his yard. You move in front of him, no barrier this time, and place a gentle hand on the baby's back.
"Seriously?" you ask. "Did you see anyone? Was there a note? Any supplies or anything?"
"Didn't wake up too long ago. Didn't check the box either, I --"
You look more scandalized than he's ever seen you, and when you carefully lift the baby out of his arms, he doesn't fight you.
He does feel an embarrassing rush of jealousy when you cradle the child in your arms, close to your chest, and lean down with little soothing whispers, but the feeling is pushed away by the relief he feels when the crying finally stops.
"Little traitor," he grumbles.
You shoot him a smile, and lead the way back to his front porch, climbing the steps and waiting by the open doorway. Simon picks up the box, then gestures for you to go inside. He starts sifting through it, following behind you as you take a seat on his old couch, cooing at the baby again.
There's a blanket lining the bottom of the box, and another one crumpled on top. A bottle is stuffed down on one side, and he thinks that's it until he lifts the bottom blanket and sees a folded sheet of paper. He pulls it out, and reads it quickly, then again, then a few more times.
I thought I could do it but I can't. Take care of her for me. I'm sorry.
He reads the words until his vision becomes blurry, until he can't hear anything past the ringing in his ears. His hands on the paper stay steady though, and his training breaks through, forcing him to stay calm under the pressure that's threatening to break him.
Because he knows, all at once, that you're sitting in his home, holding his daughter. And he has no idea what to do with this.
Part two! Part three! Part four!
