"He is too!" exploded Jimmy through his tears. "I saw him!"

"But--"

"Donald, this is no time to start cross-examining a child." She crossed
the room and lifted him onto her lap; she stroked his head and held his
cheek against her shoulder. His open crying subsided into deep sobs; from
somewhere she found a handkerchief and made him blow his nose--once,
twice, and then a deep thrice. "Get me a warm washcloth," she told her
husband, and with it she wiped away his tears. The warmth soothed Jimmy
more.

"Now," she said firmly, "before we go into this any more we'll have a
good night's sleep."

The featherbed was soft and cozy. Like protecting mother-wings, it folded
Jimmy into its bosom, and the warm softness drew out of Jimmy whatever
remained of his stamina. Tonight he slept of weariness and exhaustion,
not of the sedation given last night. Here he felt at home, and it was
good.

And as tomorrows always had, tomorrow would take care of itself.

Jimmy Holden's father and mother first met over an operating table,
dressed in the white sterility that leaves only the eyes visible. She
wielded the trephine that laid the patient's brain bare, he kept track of
the patient's life by observing the squiggles on the roll of graph paper
that emerged from his encephalograph. She knew nothing of the craft of
the delicate instrument-creator, and he knew even less of the craft of