I decided to break this story up into a few parts. We'll see how that works out.


When Wendy miscarried, Kyle was in the waiting room of a brightly lit adoption agency in downtown Denver, staring at his phone and listening to Stan pace. An hour after she'd resigned herself to the blow against her fledgling family and marriage, Stan's phone uttered the first few verses of Paint it Black, and Kyle started to bob his head to a different beat. He looked up from his phone to see Stan frantically patting his coat like it had just burst into flames, casting a harried and apologetic look at the receptionist, who hadn't even lowered her magazine.

"Hello?"

Kyle shook his head and refreshed his inbox. The way Stan spoke, it was like he was the one who was usually on call at a clinic.

"Nothing," he muttered as the screen of his phone went white for the span of a blink. 268 open messages left over. All from Stan. All completely and beautifully trivial; the first one stretching back to his second semester of freshman year, the last containing a link to a video of a rampaging hippo. 'Cartman's past life', as Stan had dubbed it.

"God. Wendy, I'm so sorry."

Kyle placed his phone in his lap. Stan's voice regressed three years, to when Kyle had told him tonelessly that he hadn't made it into a residency program this year, that he couldn't see himself dredging up the energy to force his way in later, and so he'd become a GP.

Stan sucked in his lower lip, chewing it while he rested most of his weight against the wall, palm open and head bowed.

"Look, if you need me to come over...OK. Yeah. You're right. What did he say?" Stan's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. He took a quick breath, but the garbled voice on the other end stilled him. He just nodded. Then again. "All right. I guess I shouldn't be surprised by that. Just...call me later. Yeah? I will. Take care of yourself, Wendy. Thanks. You too. Bye."

Stan pocketed his phone in a smooth, slow motion. He righted himself like an animatronic sculpture. His eyes were clear. Blue. Dark.

"Wendy lost the baby." He finally said, and his voice was whole. Kyle at least thanked some force beyond his power for that.

"Miscarriage." Kyle tested his clinical tone, uselessly, pedantically, and wondered if it had been a complete or incomplete abortion. His eyes fell from Stan's gaze, to the corded carpet.

He supposed he should be flattered that Stan's concern three years ago possibly transcended that instilled by the spontaneous loss of his former lover's fetus. Or at least he could put the two on equal footing.

Suddenly Kyle became aware that he hadn't spoken, except for one token technical term that was so plain and obvious as to be ugly.

He gestured for Stan to come next to him; he held out his hand and Stan slid his palm across the top without tightening his grip. Stan looked past Kyle towards the door.

"It's really shitty, you know? Wendy, I mean. They've been trying for so long." He just shook his head.

Kyle frowned. "It's been what? A year and a half leading up to this? They've got time." Kyle didn't mention that the average time for couples to conceive was six months, that they should have been seeing a fertility specialist, if they were to follow the slow contour of modern medical thought. Except Wendy would know. She would have consulted, poured through journals, made appointments. She just hadn't felt the need to admit her knowledge to Stan.

"Dude, do you think we should reschedule this appointment?"

Kyle didn't conceal his surprise. "Why?"

Stan seemed less certain. "I don't know. It just seems...weird, going ahead with this right now, while Wendy's just gotten that news."

"Stan, this is our first one on one meeting. We're not just gonna fill our names out on a form and get the kid gift wrapped. Don't you remember how long this whole thing is supposed to take?"

Eighteen months. He answered his own question. It would have been easier for Kyle to jizz in a cup and give it to Stan's sister, if he hadn't been terrified of the resulting offspring and the thought of any part of himself near Shelly's vagina.

"Yeah," Stan spoke breathily, as though he were in the few frigid moments before a brisk winter run.

Just dive in Stan, hm? That's what you always do. Kyle couldn't help but fill his mind's voice with a tone of reverence.

Stan turned to Kyle and smiled. "But we'll get through it, yeah? No big deal."

"No big deal," Kyle mimed, neatly. Just like they'd gotten through Kyle's slide into apparent mediocrity, just like they're getting through Stan's current unemployment. But they were the right age for kids, Stan said. Career and motivational aptitude be damned.

Stan had entwined his fingers in the capacious mass of curls at he base of Kyle's skull. Kyle's shoulders momentarily pinched as Stan started to lazily rove over the oblique curve of his scalp with the pads of his fingers.

"It'll be OK," Stan muttered. Kyle didn't know which of them he was addressing.

Stan's palliative motions pulled Kyle into a content oblivion, so when the receptionist called their names, and Stan relinquished his masseuse's grip on his scalp, Kyle had to equilibrate himself, his balance, his body heat, like he'd stumbled out of bed right after sex.

"Hooray," he muttered artlessly as he forced himself up and ambled after Stan. Stan took long, quick strides; he wore dark jeans, a button down shirt, and a grey blazer, which to Kyle's disappointment hid anything he might have been interested in looking at.

The receptionist stopped in front of a closed door. It was sturdy and smooth and latticed with green, frosted glass. She knocked twice and turned the handle at the behest of a muffled response.

Kyle still trailed behind Stan; his line of sight was caught up by the edge of the door frame. He paused for a few seconds, stared, sighed and then walked in to give Stan his support.

The office took advantage of a large window, making it as bright and inviting as the waiting room. The desk and shelves and chairs all looked to be made of pine, a soft wood, according to Stan. Kyle glanced at the surface of the desk and saw shallow scratches and the dents. On the wall were diplomas and certificates, all neatly framed for posterity. Kyle had no idea what kind of qualifications were necessary to be a baby pusher. He sat down in one of the two chairs without preamble, edging his chair closer to Stan's as introductions started rolling off.

"Good morning, Mr. Marsh?" Stan, still standing, took shook the woman's hand.

"Mr. Broflovski?" A pause and Kyle realized he was expected to stand. He smiled as he did so, extending his hand and meeting the woman's eyes. In her early thirties. Thin, long, dark hair. Not black like Stan's. Kyle smiled wider at the observation.

"I'm Sherri Hickman. It's nice to meet you both."

"Thanks," Stan smiled again, nervous, his fingers stretching and curling against his thighs.

"You can call us Stan and Kyle. He's Stan, I'm Kyle." Kyle indicated each of them with a curt hand motion.

She nodded. "Of course." Another smile. "And you can call me Sherri." She looked down at her papers. "So, it says here that the two of you have been involved in a domestic partnership for...eight years..."

Oh God. Kyle resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They'd been warned that the whole process would be more complicated, more expensive. More tiring.

Stan cleared his throat. "We've known each other our whole lives. I mean we've been dating since before we graduated high school, so technically, we've been together for almost fourteen years." He finished by placing his hands on his knees, and started tapping his foot lightly against the floor.

Kyle placed his hand on Stan's shoulder. He should have taken the jacket off. Stan's shoulders were firm and finely contoured .

"Congratulations." And she sounded sincere, suited for the job of delivering both elation and disappointment.

"I'm just asking for technical reasons. As we go through the process, we'll have to use as much official information as we can."

"Right." Stan didn't sound at all certain about this assertion, and he spoke slowly.

Sherri returned to her papers, and Kyle turned his head to catch Stan's eye; he mouthed 'relax' and smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

A flip of a paper and Sherri met their faces again.

"Now, Mr. Broflovski, you're currently working at the Sloane Clinic in Fort Collins Colorado, correct?"

"Yes."

"Good, good. And it looks like that's been steady for the last three years...your income..."

Stan interrupted. "Look, it's all there on the sheet. Why do we have to go through all this now?" Stan leaned back and placed one palm on the back of the left arm; his other hand went to work massaging his temple.

Kyle didn't bother to give placating looks or apologies; he wanted to stand up and say 'Thanks, but no thanks, this isn't going to work today.' But he'd cut this block of time neatly out of his schedule, even going as far as to clear tomorrow so he and Stan could walk aimlessly around the park, filling the time with hopeful smiles and narrated daydreams. He smiled at the quaintness of the concept. Only for Stan.

"I'm sorry, Stan. But from my experience it's easier to go through these forms step by step and iron out any possible inconsistencies or misunderstandings." She didn't even have to sound diplomatic.

Kyle sighed and brought himself back.

"All the information's correct. The reference I gave is up to date, and ready to be called."

"Excellent." She cleared her throat. "And Stan...you've been unemployed since April of last year, correct?"

Stan just nodded tightly. His large hands looked awkward, the way he was moving them in the confined space in front of his stomach and before his knees.

"Stan does a lot of freelance work. He's been writing op-eds and book reviews for the Coloradoan. He helped build a new section onto the animal shelter. He did most of the carpentry work, and it was all volunteer work. And our house." He paused, maybe for effect, maybe to give Stan a chance to voice embarrassment or contrition. None came. "When we bought our house, it was a piece of crap. Stan replaced the downstairs floors, a lot of the sheet rock in the garage...he practically rebuilt the whole thing."

Stan nearly guffawed; he bit his lip in time. Partial truth, they could both concede. The floor, yes. Stan had rented some large machine that Kyle couldn't remember the name of, a pneumatic something, then bought five bundles of oak floor planks. They'd spent three weekends, peeling off the old floor plank by plank, laying the new boards at a foot an hour. Kyle would crouch, set the tongue into the groove, and spring back up as Stan adjusted the machine's position and sent his sledge arching bluntly onto the piston, effectively stealing Thor's thunder. Five hours later on the first day, and Kyle had discovered he'd just participated in an excruciating squat routine set to the din of Stan's sledge hammer.

After seeing his geriatric gait and hearing the reason behind it, Kenny had grinned widely and said, 'Mhm, Kyle on his knees in every room of the house while Stan pounds away. All is right in the world.'

Sherri was typing, nodding. The room filled with what sounded like a hundred sets of chattering teeth.

"That's actually very good to hear. Involved in the community and at home." She paused. "Have you considered whether you want a boy or a girl?"

Boy, Kyle thought, distantly, half-heartedly. Black hair and grey eyes. Someone whom Stan could teach about woodworking and nature. Dogs. Kyle's Adam's apple bobbed with suppressed laughter. Then Stan would show him all his favorite books and stories and eventually tell him that he should drink gin, not vodka, because gin was what you drank when you wanted to relax on a hot summer day and have a 'serious' discussion.

Stan shook his head, smiling. "We don't have a preference."

Kyle nodded his consent mechanically. They wouldn't have been able to voice their concrete decisions anyway.

"All right, now, we can just get through all the rest of these papers."

She moved down the sheet, line by line, inch by inch, reassuringly, professionally, like she was going through a well practiced procedure for removing a deeply embedded sliver of metal.

Stan kept his composure once questions about their employment and the length and integrity of their relationship had been put to rest. He even smiled again, when it was suggested that he had a fatherly quality about him. If Stan hadn't been sitting next to him, Kyle would have let his face screw up at the utter vacuousness of the sentiment; as it stood, he caught himself up on the coat-tails of Stan's jovial enthusiasm.

Kyle knew the meeting had passed its prime when Sherri started asking them about their life in South Park during high school. She'd switched the line of conversation right after the light had glinted off the face of her watch, catching Kyle's eye like a beacon in the dark; he'd have the iridescent spot dancing in his vision for at least half an hour.

All the time has to be filled to the brim, right? Kyle's lip curled as he let Stan roll off a generic answer about socially constrained, blue collar towns. Sherri just nodded in amicable incomprehension. It was like watching an over rehearsed commercial. Kyle cleared his throat and stood the moment there was a lull in the conversation.

"It was great meeting you, Sherri. Stan and I have a lot to think about, and I'm sure you'll be really helpful over the next few months." Kyle glanced at Stan, who seemed to be operating in a different reference frame.

"Are we done already?" He sounded almost confused. Kyle placed his hand under Stan's elbow and pulled up, even though he wasn't actually strong enough to move Stan's bulk in any meaningful way.

Sherri segued smoothly.

"Exactly on time, actually. Now, I've marked this calendar." She handed it to Stan.

"We'll meet again two weeks from today. Then two weeks after that, and monthly, from then on, and I'll direct and refer you as the process goes on." She paused, favoring Stan with a friendly expression. "I realize what we've covered here may seem trivial and redundant, but that's the process."

"Right." Stan finally stood, straightening his jacket. He cleared his throat. "So, next, uh, we were told that we'd have to start a home study." Stan truncated his thought process, looked to Kyle, then to Sherri.

"That's all outlined in the information packet. This is a pre home study, if you like. In two weeks, you'll really be starting on the road to parenthood."

Kyle smiled. "Wonderful."


Home study consisted of exactly everything Kyle disliked about an evaluation process. Phone calls, always minutes after he got home from work, asking him to confirm an appointment or the filing of a form whose name he couldn't remember. The agency had Stan's number too, but they always called Kyle. Sometimes, if Kyle had just gotten home from a day of consecutive pediatric flu cases, complete with panicked parents who didn't seem to understand that he couldn't give their children antibiotics to treat a virus, he'd see the number, hand the phone over to Stan, walk to the bedroom and fall spread eagle onto their bed, and sleep until Stan roused him for dinner.

On the occasions when Kyle thought himself levelheaded enough to speak to someone cheerful and enthusiastic, he answered curtly and without preamble: Yes, Fine, No, Maybe, I don't know, encompassed most of his new vocabulary, with a prolonged 'hrmmm' rounding off the end of any non-sequiturs and lapses in conversation. By the end of the month, Stan was Stan, and Kyle was Mr. Broflovski.

During their fourth meeting, since Kyle decided he might as well try and keep some objective score of their progress through the process, the topic of the home visit had been broached, and Stan immediately took it upon himself to start gathering what he called 'high quality, figured hardwood' so he could start making a crib. Kyle had stared at him for a few seconds before moving to the bedroom, retrieving the information packet they'd received. He circled with thick, black pen the section that described the time table between the end of homestudy, and the beginning of interviewing perspective birth mothers. All in all, he'd circumscribed a hypothetical time span of at least ten months, first pressing his pen right under the words 'immediately following' and closing the opposite arc of the curve just below 'final sign over.' Kyle had read the last few lines. Apparently, they didn't assume full ownership of the child until they and the mother had dotted all their i's, crossed all their t's and initialed here, there and everywhere. It reminded him of adopting a puppy from the animal shelter.

And speaking of which, Sparky II (Stan's brilliant idea), came trotting into the kitchen, sat down, and assumed the same expression of diligent, almost affected concentration as his owner.

Stan shrugged and tossed the papers onto the counter.

"It's still a good idea to start now. I mean, I'll have to cut the planks, shape them, sand them, stain them, make sure the finished product is stable. All that fun stuff." He smiled at the end, carefree.

"We've got time, Stan. You've got time. I mean, all day, mostly." Kyle regretted the words the moment he spoke them, but Stan didn't seem distraught.

"Yeah, I should get up off my lazy ass and start making some money, true." He knelt and started making cloying noises at the dog, practically rubbing their faces together. Kenny always asked when Stan and Sparky would elope to a country where dog fucking was legal.

"No, Stan, that's not what I meant."

"Kyle, relax. I'm not gonna go to pieces because you say something that's true. I'm just...excited, you know?"

Kyle nodded. "Yeah."

"Hey, I'm gonna go for a walk with Spark. Wanna come?" He was already walking to the closet for his coat.

"No. I'm kind of tired. I think I'll just heat some leftovers and...I don't know...pass out on the couch watching TV."

Stan laughed. "Oh right, that sounds exactly like Kyle Broflovski." He kissed Kyle sloppily on the temple.

"You sure you don't want me to make you something? It'd take like twenty minutes, and all you'd have to do is stick it in the oven."

Stick it in. Kyle almost smirks stupidly, and has no idea why. Too much time around Kenny? Or too much time around sniveling children during flu season.

"No, no. Go ahead."

Stan's expression slides near neutrality. "OK dude. I'll see you in about an hour then."

He's out the door, Sparky II unleashed and trailing him like his shadow.

Kyle just stared at the circled time table. It might as well have been a photograph of a crop circle, complete with the frantic caption 'Evidence of extraterrestrial life incontrovertible.'

Alien life. That'd be better.

Kyle gathered the papers and stacked them. For the first time since the air conditioner had broken in the dead of summer, Kyle was glad for his forthcoming double shift.


Said double shift flowed like a river of brick. Kyle had apparently treated every screaming, runny nosed child within a thirty mile radius. Or at least those whose parents didn't have a pediatrician on speed dial. Because Kyle was superfluous in the face of a carefully structured, corporate and state subsidized health care program. All that would keep him afloat would be a constant stream of awkward, stupid teenagers who were too embarrassed to go through their parent's insurance provider and see a specialist.

These reassuring thoughts occupied Kyle while he made his fourth trip from his office to the drinking fountain. Six months ago, a bill had passed through the legislature, freeing up several hundred thousand dollars worth of funds for renovation to the clinic. Over the course of ten weeks, the workers had ripped up the old, grimy carpet, peeling it off in strips like they were skinning a dead giant. Then they'd replaced the yellowing, cracking ceiling tiles with smooth, white panels that looked like squares of fresh chalk in the soft hall lights. Finally, and to Kyle's relief, the order had come down to replace all the examination tables and sinks, and most of the equipment in the bacteriology and virology lab. Now he could tell hysterical teenage couples that one of them was pregnant and the other had gonorrhea in the same afternoon.

Upon his return, Kyle found the receptionist waiting in his office. He thought briefly that she'd gotten so bored she's going to proposition him. Or that could be a reflex thought on his part.

"You've got a patient." She stood when he entered

"Oh? Another kid needs penicillin for a cold?" Kyle didn't even bother to pick up his prescription pad.

"Ha. No. A 29 year old man, with a one year old. He's afraid the baby has a..."

"Respiratory infection," Kyle finished. "Coughing. Runny nose. Low fever. Got it." He turned to leave.

"You're not even going to ask if that's the case?"

"What else could it be? We've got a flu spike, everyone's panicking about it. And if it was something worse, this guy wouldn't have taken his baby to a walk in clinic."

The examination room was a few doors down from his office, and Kyle didn't have any time to form an anticipatory image of who could be waiting for him; he only took a breath and flung open the door.

"Clyde?" He said the name with the deadpan bluntness of sucker punch to the face.

And indeed Clyde Donovan was sitting before him, cradling a baby in his large, hairy arms. He had a black windbreaker tied around his waist, and wore a red tee shirt that looked like it had been stained multiple times with something purple. His hair was like a shaggy mop sitting carelessly on his head.

"Kyle, thank God. I thought I'd made a mistake, when I tried to remember where you worked." If he hadn't had a baby in his arms, Clyde probably would have jumped up and hugged Kyle.

Kyle closed the door and stepped forward. The baby was coughing in short, dusty bursts. Everything about it made Kyle think of some desiccated, stunted miscalculation.

"That's great, Clyde. Why did you need to come see me specifically?" And how the hell did Craig and Clyde spawn? Then he shook his head and waited for Clyde to respond.

Clyde swallowed. "I...well I was supposed to be watching Robb. That's the baby's name. Well, it's Robert, but we call him Robb..."

"Clyde." Kyle resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulders. "What's wrong with the baby?"

"Robb."

"Robb," Kyle amends. "What's wrong with him?"

"He was fine in the morning," Clyde started rocking his arms. "Then around noon he started coughing, and I thought if I just gave him some water things would be fine. But then his nose started running, and he got a fever, and I didn't have my insurance card with me, and..." He gazed up at Kyle, as though he could convey all the feeling and details of the morning and afternoon by looking helpless.

"OK." Kyle washed his hands, dried them and pulled on the pale violet gloves that made his hands feel like they were stuck under the skin of a dead animal.

Kyle held out his arms, and to his surprise, Clyde relinquished the baby without need for encouragement. It was warm. A warm, helpless mass of flesh. He had red hair.

Kyle sat with the baby, next to the table where he always kept his diagnostic equipment neatly arranged on a rack.

"He's quiet," Kyle commented, as he reached for the stethoscope.

Clyde nodded. "Yeah. He cried a lot on the way over here."

Kyle just 'hmmed' in response. He listened to the heartbeat first. Fine. Small but steady. Then he placed the scope on the baby's back. His coughing segued into soft sobbing. Kyle shook his head curtly when Clyde moved to stand. He kept listening until the sobbing quieted, and the coughs resumed. After a few seconds he takes the stethoscope plugs from his hears and places the instrument around his neck.

"You said he had a runny nose?"

"Yeah." Clyde's voice sounded hoarse.

"What color was the mucus?"

"Yellow," Clyde said immediately. "His nose ran on my coat."

Robb was looking at him. Wide blue eyes. Blue and red. The sight disconcerted Kyle.

"All right." Kyle reached for the thermometer, snapped a fresh guard on the reader, and placed it in Robb's ear.

"100 degrees," Kyle announced. He removed the guard and readjusted Robb on his knee. He was coughing again.

"You can hold him now." Clyde was in front of him in two large, quick strides, smiling. The stains are probably jelly, Kyle thinks.

"So, what do you think it is? Flu or cold?"

"Cold." Kyle looks at his hands, a thin veneer of sweat forming under the latex. He appraised Clyde, even though he's totally engrossed in Robb.

"You're going to want to make sure to avoid anything exerting. No running or playing outside. Plenty of fluids. You know, all the stuff they told us when we were in school." Kyle sighs as he finishes the sentence. Never doubt your dignity, Kyle.

"And, make sure you keep an eye on the fever. Anything above 101, you come back and see me, or go to the hospital."

"So, he's all right then?" Clyde sounded so hopeful Kyle would have been tempted to lie under different circumstances.

"Yeah. Nothing to worry about." Kyle narrowed his eyes. Red hair. Why would they bother...

"When did you and Craig adopt?" It's personal, something Kyle would never ask any other patient, but with Clyde, it's an almost comfortable conversation starter.

Clyde averted his eyes, holds Robb closer. "He's not mine. Ours. Not ours. He's Craig's sister's."

"Oh." Kyle glanced back at the door, where Robb's medical chart was sitting in the clear plastic holder. He retrieved the clipboard and examined the paper work.

Robert John O'Connor. Born July 16th.

"Los Almos," Kyle muttered.

13 months old. Parents, Jessica and Justin O'Connor. No allergies. No surgical procedures. Blood type O.

Kyle lowered the clipboard.

"I'm sorry, Clyde."

"For what?"

Kyle didn't say anything for a few seconds. He took a deep breath, confirming the sharpness of sterility in the room.

"Is Craig out of town right now?" Kyle tired to placate himself with the thought that Craig would be more responsible than that.

"He's at work. Jess and her husband wanted some time off, so they left Robb with us for a week." Clyde looked worried again. "Do you think I should have brought Craig in?"

"Why? Just tell him what I told you. If he wants, he can call me." Not that he will, but it's the thought that counts.

"I didn't wanna fuck this up, you know?" Clyde's tone changed; it's clearer and sharper now, earnest. "I mean, I really want a kid of my own someday." He smiled down at Robb, the gesture stilling Kyle's attempt to truncate the conversation. He really looked like the ideal of paternity, gentle and assured and loving.

And Stan would be like that. Wendy as a mother would be like that. Clyde and Stan and Wendy. Stan's child would have black hair and grey eyes.

"Craig says he hates kids." Clyde's voice was quiet. "He'll watch Robb, because of his sister, but he usually just leaves him with me, and if he wakes up at night crying, I always go and make sure he gets back to sleep."

"You mean Craig won't do anything about it?" He should have just said that the discussion was a violation of his code of conduct. Clyde wouldn't question him. Stan would have told any doctor who told him that that he was full of shit.

"He will. But he doesn't like it. I can tell." Clyde leaned back, moving Robb with him. "Sometimes Craig is a real ass."

Clyde said the word as though it were meant to be a weapon. Blunt and fashioned to cause harm. Only he's waving it around for show, ineffectually, when he should be turning it on the source of his protracted consternation.

"Then tell him." Kyle surprised himself with vehement he sounds. The feeling lagged behind his growing sense of indignation.

Clyde sighed. "No, I'm not going to bring it up. It'd just be one huge headache for both of us."

"Look, Clyde. Don't take this from me as your doctor. Take it as...your friend. You've wanted kids for a while now, I'll bet."

When Clyde nodded, Kyle continued.

"Then you have to talk to Craig about that. It can't just be him getting what he wants because he might throw a tantrum."

Clyde laughed. "Craig doesn't do tantrums. He's more into glowering and sitting on the balcony drinking whiskey."

"Adult tantrums, then. You really need to talk to him, or this is going to come back to bite both of you in the ass one day." Kyle felt proud for not uttering the words 'you'll wake up one day and realize...'

Clyde just shook his head slowly, almost patronizingly. "Kyle, thanks for the support, or advice, I guess. But, now really isn't the right time. Craig and I are in a pretty good place, not perfect, but it's nice. We'll both be ready sometime, and we'll go from there."

The statement was so plain and innocuous that Kyle didn't immediately know how to respond.

"Do you and Stan want a kid?" Clyde leaned away from the wall, but he still slouched slightly.

Kyle glanced back to the chart. "Maybe. We're...considering some agencies right now. We'll see how it goes."

Clyde smiled. "That's nice."

"Yeah." Kyle put the clipboard on the counter. "I think that should more or less cover everything. Just make sure he gets plenty of rest. Fluids. Check his temperature regularly, and give me a call if anything comes up." He could just picture that, getting a call from a frantic Clyde at 3 in the morning. Stan's transcendent sympathy would probably make him want to come to the clinic, if it came to it.

"Thanks Kyle." Clyde stood. With the baby in his arms, his bulk was accentuated. He was in reasonably good shape, his chest and shoulders broad, his gut a mild, inoffensive protrusion. 'Craig likes bears,' Kenny had once snickered, drunkenly, causing Bebe to smack the back of his head.

"It's no problem." He opened the door for Clyde.

"Hey, we should all get together some time. You and Stan, and Craig and me."

Kyle nodded tolerantly. "Sure. I'll ask Stan. He'd like that." And he would. Clyde was just as excessively affectionate towards Sparky II as Stan, and the surest way to Stan's good side was through his dog. And Kyle could take the edge off of Craig's personality by offering him gin and discussing his news column, which he admitted was worthy of its laudatory designation of 'sharply written, and full of wry observations about the state of American cultural life.' He never failed to ask Craig, in all seriousness, how the state of American cultural life was fairing on that specific day.

"Cool. And good luck with the adoption." Sympathy. Kyle felt his chest tighten.

"Thanks." He stepped into the hall and watched as Clyde left, as though he'd told Clyde bad news and his presence would somehow offer comfort through osmosis of empathy.

When Clyde had gone, Kyle peeled off his gloves, tossed them into the garbage, and sat down. He stared at Clyde's vacated seat.

"Well, that was horrifying."