Deborah Hardy smiled to herself – and then down at a mass of blankets in her arms – as the sound of light footsteps thundered closer and closer. They skidded to a stop, and heavier ones clunked behind them. The chink of metal on metal, and then:

"Don't you dare open that door, Caleb Louis Hardy."

The voice was deep and officious and the chinking stopped immediately. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a man who might be described as rakish, if only his shoulders weren't so broad. He loomed over the young boy at his shins. He glanced down at the blankets in his wife's arms, grunted his acquiescence, and moved aside to allow some space for Deborah to enter the house.

The little boy stayed put at the threshold, grinning up at his mother. "Mummy!" he declared – and went on – "did you get to ride in the special black car?"

Dr Hardy cleared his throat. Caleb stared up to see that his father's lips were pursed, though the corners prick up. Caleb looked back at his mother, who had somewhat of a cheeky grin on her face.

"Come off it, John," she chuckled, "you know he doesn't mean a hearse."

A gentle whine began to pulse from the lump in the blankets in Deborah's arms. She cooed at it, giggling down as it wriggled against her arm. "It's alright, darling," she whispered, "mummy's not going anywhere in a hearse for a very long time."

Dr Hardy placed a finger on Caleb's head. "She might be if she has to stay out in this cold for much longer. Out of the way, you."

Caleb traipsed to stand next to his father, allowing Deborah to step inside. She smiled at both of them as Dr Hardy closed the door behind her. Deborah entered the living room, the boys following behind her, and placed the blankets down on the living room floor. She knelt next to them with a fond smile playing on her face. She looked up at Dr Hardy and Caleb. "Who wants to see?"

Caleb bounded over to her and plopped himself down next to the blankets. He stared down at them and then beamed up at his father. "You can look," he offered. "There's a baby in here." He jabbed its face with his forefinger and giggled when it scrunched up its nose and made a cross noise in response.

Deborah placed a light hand on his arm. "You have to be gentle with him, Caleb," she said, "he's very little."

A shadow fell over the baby, and Caleb flinched back, but the shadow had no interest in him. Dr Hardy undressed the baby's blankets with meticulous attention paid to every blanket, as though it was sacred wrapping paper around a fragile gift that he daren't rip. He blinked down at it.

"Fat little thing," he decreed.

Caleb shrieked. "It's got a willy!" he cried.

Deborah snickered, but the Dr Hardy and the baby did not share the same sentiment. The baby scrunched up its face at the noise and began to shriek. Dr Hardy stared straight on at his older son. "Caleb," he placated, "your mother has warned you to be gentle with him."

Caleb looked down at the ground in shame, and Deborah laid a hand on his head. "Leave him be, John," she murmured, "a three year old's hardly an adult, is he?"

Dr Hardy sighed and rewrapped the baby, using his first two fingers to lay two firm pats on the baby's abdomen. Caleb watched as the shrieking ceased, but tears continued to slip down his face. He leaned forwards over it.

"It's okay, baby," he whispered, and thudded a hand onto its tummy. He wriggled as something took him from behind and made to lift him. He kicked at the figure, but it was bigger than him and took them like a rock would. He let out an angry squeak and made to bite the figure's arm.

"Caleb!" it snapped. Caleb silenced and allowed the figure to carry him from the room, quite limp.

Deborah gathered the baby in her arms. "Shh," she cooed, "shush, sweet, everything's okay."

O

The baby dropped off to sleep soon afterwards. Deborah cradled him in her arms as she walked through to the kitchen. John was sitting at the glass table nursing a black coffee. He offered Deborah a wan smile as she entered, standing up from the chair. She returned the smile and held the baby closer to her chest.

"He's asleep," she whispered. As if on cue, the baby gave a minute snore. Deborah grinned up at John, who was smirking at it.

John advanced forwards and laid four fingers on the back of the baby's head, covering it completely. "I always think it one of the wonders of human development," he murmured, "that human babies leave the womb so unprepared for the outside world." He retracted two of his fingers and brushed the remaining two over a bulging spot on the baby's head. "There are bones here that haven't even fused together," he whispered and glared at the wall, swallowing.

Deborah rubbed at his arm. "You're allowed to feel emotional, John," she said. "Do it here so you don't take it out on little Caleb."

John cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he declared, deigning to ignore the second part. "I think we need to name him, Debbie."

Deborah giggled. "Oh, what's the name of the thing in comic that Sally next door bought her Andy…" she paused, "Donatello!" she declared. "Are you sure you don't want to call him Fontanello after that?"

She looked up at her husband, who once again had pursed his lips at her with the corners of them pricking up. "That," John said, "was bad."

The baby gurgled in his sleep, squeezing a laugh out of Deborah. "Baby thinks it's funny," said Deborah.

John drummed his fingers on the table top. "Baby still needs a name," he muttered, and groped around in his jacket pocket until he produced a list of names that had been folding twice. "There are at least 20 here, so we're spoilt for choice."

Deborah rolled her eyes.

O

An hour afterwards, Caleb had not re-emerged from his bedroom. Deborah gathered the baby in her arms and declared that she was going to put him to bed. The stairs held the air of argument that had not yet been diffused. She felt most uncomfortable. She popped her head around Caleb's door to find him sitting on his bed with his knees pulled up to his chest.

"Do you want to come and put the baby to bed with me, Poppet?" she whispered.

Caleb shook his head and drew his knees closer to him. A warm hand lay on his shoulder and he stared up at its owner. Deborah was looking down at him with sad eyes.

"Why not?"

Caleb shrugged. "Don't wanna hurt him."

"Want to, sweet," corrected Deborah. She rubbed her hand across Caleb's shoulders. "And I don't think for a second that you'd hurt him; I can teach you how to hold him."

The small bed shook at the force with which Caleb's head snapped up. "Really?" he gasped.

Within ten minutes, Deborah was edging down the hallway with Caleb in her arms clutching the baby. She set Caleb down on the changing table and coaxed the baby from his arms.

"We're going to put him to bed now, see," she said, and laid him down on the mattress.

"Why's he not got a name?" asked Caleb.

Deborah tittered. "Has does have a name, darling," she said. "It's Ethan."

She kissed both sons on the forehead. "I'll read you both a bedtime story, and then it's time for sleep, okay?"

Caleb nodded. He was growing to like the idea of having someone else who could listen to bedtime stories with him, and he'd make sure that Ethan shared the same favourites as him.

He slept well that night.