Disclaimer: Wow, it's easier to do these when you aren't posting a bunch of fic in a row. Ehn, just please don't steal or do anything untoward with my characters, all right?

A/N: 'Deaf' prompt, which was the easiest to find something on, I must say. Once again, Robbie is Michael and Paul's kid (but not yet); Miranda ("Randy") is his birth mother. As I've said to a number of reviewers who've asked me, there's a reason why she isn't in the later stories but you'll have to find out yourself.

Anyhow

"But you don't think it's weird?"

At the moment, Paul was actually thinking that he wanted to go to sleep, and wished that Michael would stop being paranoid for once and let this slide. The redhead had worked himself up into a perfect state of agitation and was clearly not going to calm down for a few more hours or until he paranoid himself to death — and all because of an Internet article he'd found through Google.

"It's hard to tell what's 'normal' for babies," Paul said into the pillow. He might have used this argument before, but this was the second hour of Michael's ranting and Paul couldn't remember what he'd tried. "Each baby develops differently; we've been through this. 'Tony and Jolene didn't respond to sounds when they were upset, either; they liked being held instead."

"I can accept that," Michael said. He was drumming one hand against the blankets; the repetitive motion was driving Paul crazy. "But all the articles I've read agree that Robbie should be at least recognizing sounds by now, even if they don't calm him down. He should be turning his head toward noises when he hears them."

Part of Paul realized he should be listening to this; he'd been involved in the raising of six children already, and knew the merits of being aware of everything in a baby's health. But it was late at night and there was nothing they could do about it until morning, at least.

"Why are you so convinced he's deaf?" Paul raised his face, rolling onto one side. "Why can't he just, I don't know, be concentrating on something else? Or developing later than the average?"

"Well, if they had done this test when he was born, we wouldn't have to be having this conversation."

Michael was impossible when he got like this; the only thing to do was let him get it all out, and not attempt to argue a different point. It only fuelled his mood. Paul nodded. "First thing tomorrow morning I'll call the doctor's office and we'll make an appointment for as soon as they have an opening."

"Why don't you call now?" Michael raised a hand, cutting Paul off when he opened his mouth to protest. "I know it's after midnight, but they have an answering machine! That way they can have the message as soon as the office opens and we'll have an edge on anyone who calls tomorrow."

Paul swallowed the frustrated groan and flipped back onto his stomach. "Good idea; the phone's on your side of the bed," he pulled the covers over his head. "Good night, Michael."

Six a.m. rolled around and Michael started poking Paul in the back. He faked sleep for all of three minutes before Michael tackled him, and Paul groaned and flung his hands over his eyes. "Michael! Please! No one will be at the office until eight, and no one will answer the phone for another hour after that."

"Well, we can get Robbie up and ready, can't we?" Michael balanced himself over Paul on his elbows, "It usually takes us a while to get up and ready, so if we could get started now . . ."

Paul rolled up his eyes, lifting his head to catch Michael's mouth in a short kiss. "I hate you," he said, "Just so you know. Let's shower and get dressed, and I'll get Robbie ready while you make breakfast."

"We can't shower together!" Michael looked at Paul like he was crazy. "It always takes so much longer, and we don't have time."

"We have three hours," Paul followed Michael out of bed and across the room, then pressed him hard against the wall. Michael's eyes widened, but he didn't protest when Paul grabbed his wrists and pinned them over his head. "If you think you're dragging me out of bed before the sun's even really up to go to the doctor's just to satisfy your paranoia and you won't even let me come in the shower with you, well," he raised himself on his toes and bit the side of Michael's neck, "Just try me."

Thankfully, not even his worrying about Robbie's hearing could override the pin-and-bite, and Paul made sure they stayed in the shower until almost a quarter to seven. By that point, Robbie was starting to stir, so Paul kissed Michael's cheek and went to the crib.

"Hi, darlin'," Paul said from the door; like it or not, Michael's worries tended to be contagious, and Paul just wanted to check. Sure enough, the boy lay on his back, grabbing his toes and trying to pull his foot into his mouth, and didn't as much as blink when Paul called out. Paul put it off as Robbie being engrossed in his games.

"Good thing we bathe you," Paul laughed, and he reached into the crib. When Paul's hand passed the baby's eye line, Robbie's eyes brightened and he reached out for it. "Good morning, sweetheart."

Robbie was an awfully quiet baby; he didn't coo or laugh or babble, but neither had Anthony until three, and didn't talk until four. On the other hand, Anthony was mentally retarded, and if this was the case with Robbie as well, it would be good to find out now.

Paul held the boy against his chest, alternating between blowing raspberries on his stomach and tickling it with his fingers, loving the toothless smile he got for his efforts. Randy was still asleep and probably would be for a few more hours; she'd been suffering severe post-partum depression, and Paul figured they would just leave her a note.

"Hey, it's the two handsomest boys I've ever seen," Michael waved the pancake flipper at them. Paul lifted Robbie's hand, flopping it at the wrist in return, and the boy just blinked.

"Darn right we'd better be," Robbie cradled in one arm, Paul tilted his head up and kissed Michael.

The sheer domesticity of the scene — Paul with the baby, Michael cooking breakfast with an apron tied over his clothes — might have killed some people, and certainly most young men of the age of eighteen. But Paul had never claimed to be normal, and at the moment the only thing that could have made him happier was if Robbie was legally his and Michael's.

"French toast okay?" Michael brought the plates to the table and set them down with a flourish.

"Would you make me something else if it wasn't?" Paul joked. "Do you have Robbie's — ah, thank you, hon."

They'd both managed the art of eating with one hand while holding Robbie in the other and balancing the bottom of his bottle with their chins. It looked utterly ridiculous, but it got things done unless Robbie tried to grab for Paul's bangs instead; this time, fortunately, he behaved.

Eight-thirty and they were out the door, Robbie bundled up against winter's last fling; Michael's agitation returned as soon as they were at the bus stop, and the only thing Paul could do was hold his hand. "It will be fine," he said, not really listening anymore, "Don't worry."

AFTER THE APPOINTMENT

Paul honestly didn't know what to say.

Michael was even more shock; too much for even a cursory 'I told you so'. It appeared he'd worn himself out at the doctor's, where he'd passed through the phases of denial ("Are you sure? Can't you test again?") and anger ("Why didn't they test this at birth? Why didn't we know this sooner? We could have been prepared for this back in February!"), and was now stuck in a blank, staring at everything but seeing nothing, phase.

It was probably a good thing they didn't have a car; neither of them was in any condition to drive. They stood half a block down from the doctor's, waiting for the next bus, not speaking. Michael had run out of things to say and Paul wasn't sure what, if anything, he could.

Robbie, of course, was oblivious to everything. He had picked up on the moods of his half-guardians and was a little subdued compared with his usual, but it took a lot to bring him down, and he was enjoying himself. He stared out at the world from the pouch slung over Paul's front, but rarely made a sound.

Paul's insides were doing a funny dance, making it hard to breathe; as though his lungs and heart had eloped, leaving his stomach to do the work of all three and the poor organ had no idea what it was supposed to do. He snuck glances at Michael, whose jaw was working but, fortunately, did not seem likely to explode any time soon.

"Did you want to call Pete and ask for a ride?" Paul asked after a while. The public transit system was admirable, but certain buses came on a less than regular schedule, and this was one of them. Though this wasn't about buses, and Michael had to know it; if Michael wouldn't talk to Paul, chances were he'd spill everything to Pete over a sundae. Happiness was about accepting this, after all.

"No," Michael pushed a hand into his hair, fingers playing with the red strands. Manda's mannerism; funny how all of them stole each other's gestures until they were almost one person, as far as body language was concerned. "He'll ask, why shouldn't he, and I don't know what to tell him."

That our baby is congenitally deaf? Paul's mind suggested, adding a hint of sarcasm for good measure; for that reason, Paul kept his mouth shut. The doctors suggested they come back at six months to see if anything had changed, but the preliminary testing did show that Robbie's hearing was impaired.

"All right," Paul said instead. He wanted to reach out a hand, but Michael tended to pull away when his mind whirled and it never failed to jab pinpricks into Paul. "Don't grind your teeth."

It was a reflex, a desperate to say something at all, and fortunately, Michael seemed to recognize that. He clasped his hands at his back, knuckles turning white.

"We have to talk about it now," Paul said a few seconds later, when something occurred to him.

"We can't wait until we get home?" Michael kept staring out at the street, probably wishing the bus would just hurry up and get there. This stop didn't have a schedule, and Paul really didn't feel like calling the hotline.

"If you want," Paul shrugged. Robbie waved a small fist; when Paul put his hand near, the boy grabbed Paul's finger and held on tight. Paul smiled in spite of himself. "But I really don't want to tell Randy before we've at least talked about it a little. You know she's going to freak out."

Michael groaned, his breath puffing out in front of him. "Yeah, she will," he bit his lip. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, you know," Paul's lip twitched, "How are you about it?"

Michael turned and gave him a Look, but Paul ignored it. "Well, obviously I love him just the same," he said, but it sounded almost mechanical; Paul understood that, but he couldn't help but be frightened just a little. His father had the same tone when they found out about Anthony's disability, and look how that turned out — but no. Michael wasn't like him.

"Me, too," Paul's mouth twitched, trying to form a smile, but failed somewhere in the middle of the process. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. It's just hearing; it's not like he, he . . ."

Paul heard the sniffles even before Michael wiped his eyes. He said nothing, waiting for the inevitable crack in the ice. "But music," Michael stared resolutely ahead. "It's important to both of us, and he won't ever get that."

Paul closed his eyes against the pain in Michael's tone and swallowed hard. He focussed on Robbie, bouncing him gently. Michael's gaze was wavering, matching his tone. "We can't ever sing him lullabies when he cries; he won't ever recognize our voices or hear us say 'I love you', or . . ."

"I know," Paul's breath hitched, but he couldn't lose it. Not yet; Michael was freaking out now, and it was Paul's job to calm him down. Paul wouldn't allow himself to break until Michael was all right enough to hold him. "But it could be so, so much worse. He could have had a hole in his heart, or foetal alcohol syndrome, or any of a million other things. We can live with this."

"I know it's selfish," the bus was coming now, and Michael's face closed down. Biting off an inward curse, Paul moved closer and slipped an arm around his husband's waist. Of course it would have to come now. "But I just wanted to hear him call me 'Daddy'."

And then they had to get on, and the conversation was over. Michael sat with his head in his hands while Paul fended off and smiled at the myriad young girls and old ladies who squealed over Robbie and crooned at him.

"The good thing is that he doesn't have to hear them," Paul winced when they got off, rubbing his ear. Why it was that women's voices seemed to escalate three octaves when they saw infants escaped Paul.

Michael just snorted, but at least he didn't look as upset anymore. He had two ways of dealing with things; get angry or sad right away, or say nothing and let it build up until he suddenly exploded over something innocent like "Would you mind clearing the table?" Fortunately, he'd chosen the former.

Randy was up and eating breakfast when they got home, though 'breakfast' for postpartum Miranda meant a tub of peanut butter and a spoon. At least she was getting her protein, was all Michael said about it.

Paul, on the other hand, had little patience for Randy, her depression, or any of her mood swings. He refused to accept her using pregnancy as an excuse for ruining her life and that she could do nothing else; his mother had been younger than this girl when Paul had been born and she did fine. While Paul never said anything to Randy herself, he often found himself having to leave the room to stop from screaming.

"Hey," the girl called out, her mouth full. She hadn't yet lost her pregnancy weight — and eating peanut butter all day probably didn't help that — and refused to wear anything other than oversized sweat suits no matter how often the boys told her she looked fine. "How did the doctor's go?"

"Well," Michael took a deep breath and let it out with a deliberateness that belied the calm he was trying to put on. "We learned something interesting today. It turns out Robbie's deaf."

She dropped the spoon; fortunately, it landed in the tub and that was between her knees. "What?"

"I know it's a shock," Paul said, lifting Robbie from the sling and working his arms out of his jacket sleeves, "But it's just something we'll have to adjust to, that's all. There are sign language classes at the library and stuff; we can join one of those."

"Deaf?" Randy repeated; Michael sat down beside her, perching on the arm of the chair, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "You're kidding me!"

"You don't think we're that bad at making jokes, do you?" Michael had that lovely soothing voice on that Paul admired so much. "I'm sorry, honey. But at least it's good that we found out now so we can start learning to talk to him."

Randy's eyes filled up, and Paul looked at Michael in a small panic. It was obvious the girl was going to break down any minute, and it upset Robbie every time. Michael put his arm around her shoulders, but Randy didn't appear to notice. "Wh — so he's retarded?"

Something in her tone made Paul twitch, but he forced it down before Robbie could pick up on it. He placed a smacking kiss against the baby's cheek instead and tried to focus only on the little boy's brilliant smile.

"Not 'retarded'; deaf," Michael's diction hardened, but only a little. "There's a difference."

"Retarded, handicapped, disabled, whatever," Randy was practically wailing now, and Paul expended his nervous energy by tapping his foot repeatedly. "Let me see him."

The last thing Paul wanted was to hand Robbie over now, but he did anyway; as soon as the baby left Paul's arms for his mother's, however, the baby started to scream. Miranda burst into tears as well, and Paul took Robbie back hastily. He murmured soft, soothing things — which, he realized belatedly, the child couldn't hear — and ran one hand up and down Robbie's back.

"And he hates me," Miranda sobbed, "Now what am I supposed to do? I'm sixteen and single and I'm not in school, and now I've got a deaf baby who hates me! All I'm good for now is having more babies like, like all those other useless women out there who can't do anything else!"

"I think I heard my cell phone ringing," Paul said. He stood up, holding out Robbie to Michael, then walked stiffly out of the room; as soon as he was away from them, he broke into a full-fledged stomp, just barely restraining himself from slamming the bedroom door.

He could hear Michael's voice through the walls, reminding Randy in a stern but still non-accusing manner that Paul's mother had seven children before the age of thirty and had never finished school but did the best she could, and that Randy had best be more sensitive about this sort of thing. Paul couldn't make out what she said in reply, but by the sound of things she didn't understand and was sorrier for herself than for her words.

This was the sort of thing for which Paul and his siblings got into fights at school; offhand comments regarding his mother and disparaging remarks about her worth. He sat on the bed, shaking, for several minutes before he snapped and reached for the phone; it only took a few sentences before Amanda St. Clair agreed to meet him at the diner around the corner.

"I'm going out with Manda," Paul called, "You've got my number if you need me," he pulled on his shoes and coat and was out the door. Michael didn't ask and didn't try to stop him; they both knew when the other needed to get away. Paul felt a little rotten about leaving Michael alone with both a hysterical mother and her infant son, so he picked up Robbie on the way out.

"I still think you should let me slap her around a little," Amanda frowned. They were at the restaurant and had ordered some comfort food to calm Paul down; he was too upset to eat it at the moment, and was feeding Robbie some Pedialite. She hadn't asked to hold the baby and wouldn't unless Paul couldn't take him anymore; her complete lack of maternal instincts amused Paul.

"It wouldn't help," Paul treated the offer as though it had been serious, which of course it hadn't. "She'd only complain about how badly treated she is. I just can't take it much more, Manda. I know she doesn't mean it but it's because she doesn't think and how am I supposed to excuse that? She knows about Mom and she knows about 'Tony and still she says stuff like that."

"And also acting as though Robbie's being deaf is the worst thing that could possibly happen."

Paul nodded grimly. "To her, even. Not even to him; she's not thinking about his life and what this means for Robbie."

Manda made a rude noise and ripped off a chunk of garlic bread from the plate in the centre of the table. "I say don't let her get to you. She's young, silly, and depressed, and really, it's just proof that your mother is a million times stronger than most people."

Paul kissed Robbie's soft curls. "Thanks. And I try not to but it was hard enough having to find out that Michael was right and that Robbie is deaf and we didn't know it, and then to see her just reject him like that and for such selfish reasons, ugh."

"What you need to do is get her out of the house," Manda said sagely. She made a face at Robbie, who grinned back. "She's never going to get over her depression if all she does is mope all day. I know that sounds mean," she held up a hand, "But it's not. Randy needs to find something to do, even if it's just something dorky like pottery class. She has to much time to think and kick herself."

"Hmm," Paul bent his head and nuzzled the side of Robbie's neck. The little boy squirmed and, when Paul pulled back, was smiling, but he didn't laugh out loud; good heavens, he didn't laugh. How had Paul not noticed that before? "What I don't understand is how someone could not love a sweet little boy like this. Particularly his mother."

"She loves him," Manda toyed with her food, tossing her head to get her hair out of her eyes. "But she's still a kid, Paul, and needs a scapegoat, and since her boyfriend ran off, the only one she can put any blame on is Robbie. Who else is she going to be mad at? You? Michael? You've both been amazing to her."

Paul just shrugged. "I'm still cross with her."

Manda reached across the table and patted his arm. "I know, and it's okay. And I love you for actually using the word 'cross' in context."

"What's wrong with that? Mom says it all the time."

"It's just a word that one associates with British docudramas or something," Amanda winked, "But never mind. How are you feeling about the whole thing?"

Not quite ready to answer that, Paul manoeuvred Robbie out of the way so he could finally eat something; Manda watched him struggle for a few moments before sighing dramatically and crossing the table to relieve Paul. She held Robbie competently — she had babysat the neighbours since she was twelve, after all — but with neither the air of one accustomed nor fond of handling babies, and Paul giggled at her. "He won't bite you."

"Believe me, that's the least of my worries," Amanda said dryly. She crooked her index finger and offered it to him; Robbie took her hand in both of his and gummed the knuckle happily. "And you're evading, Pauly."

“No, I’m not,” Paul picked at his fries, which were very good but a tad on the thick side. It made them too chewy, and that was never pleasant; and yes, it was utterly necessary for him to contemplate the various facets of his meal at this very moment.

“It obviously upsets you at least a little bit,” Manda jiggled Robbie in her arms, absently tickling his stomach. “Or you’d at least make eye contact when you lie to me.”

Paul felt the blood rise to his cheeks, and he crossed and uncrossed his legs. “It’s not . . . I mean, it isn’t like it is with Randy. Or Michael, even; he’s upset because we won’t be able to sing to Robbie or hear his voice or anything like that. That’s sad, yeah, but it’s not what’s bothering me.”

Manda didn’t ask what was bothering him; she tended to wait until the other person was ready, rather than inserting a bunch of useless interjections. Paul pulled the elastic from his ponytail, toyed with the dark strands, then put it back up. Manda just waited.

“I’m just scared for him,” Paul said finally. He moved his plate away so he could rest his arms on the table, sticky spots from spilled Coke and all, and dropped his head down. He mumbled the next sentence into his sleeve.

“Can’t hear you,” Manda reminded him, reaching over and tugging at his ear. “C’mon, Pauly, talk to me. Why are you scared?”

“I’m scared of what other people will do to him,” Paul amended, and there it was again; the pinpricks behind his eyelids. He blinked them back. “I know he’s already going to have trouble because of Michael and me and I’m prepared to deal with that. But that at least is directed at us and not him and we can teach him to ignore it or something. But if his own mother can’t even love him just because of something stupid like him not being able to hear then how is the rest of the world going to treat him? They don’t have any responsibility to care.”

Manda winced, and she stood up, holding Robbie against her chest, so she could slide next to Paul. He sniffled and leaned against her, letting Robbie wrap his fist around Paul’s finger. “Unfortunately, the world will find fault with people no matter who they are, unless they’re horrible and shallow and rich enough to earn grudging respect.”

Paul was tired of hearing about the way of the world and all that hard-knock nonsense, but Manda was his friend and he loved her, so he didn’t say anything. She caught his look, however, and bopped him one with her knuckles. “Don’t give me attitude. I’m not saying you have to resign yourself to Robbie being bullied. But you shouldn’t be sad; all you have to do is teach him that he’s special, and tell him enough that by the time he’s old enough that people might be rude to him about it, it won’t matter.”

“I guess,” Paul frowned. He realized it was a little soon to get depressed about harassment that hadn’t even happened yet, but he had a tendency to be paranoid and rather pessimistic about human nature, even if he tried to push it back. “I don’t necessarily want him to have an easy life, you know, ‘cause he has to grow and all that but it doesn’t mean he has to go through what Michael or I did to build character.”

“He’s a sweet baby,” Manda reassured him. “I’m not really fond of kids and I like him, so that’s something. If he’s the same when he grows up, I bet people will love him anyway.”

“I like to think he’s perfect,” Paul laughed, leaning over and kissing the boy’s forehead. Robbie reached up and tangled his fingers in Paul’s hair; he grimaced a bit and pried the little fingers free.

“Of course you do. It’s the parental instinct, isn’t it?” Amanda elbows him lightly, and Paul flushed. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t.”

They rearranged the plates and finished their meal, for which Manda insisted on paying despite Paul’s efforts to the contrary. “Did you want me to come over? I can try to talk with Randy if she’s still being difficult.”

“Thanks, but I think we’re okay,” Robbie fussed a little when Paul put him back in his jacket, but he didn’t cry. Paul suffered a minor setback when he realized that Robbie didn’t ever cry anymore and it frightened him; he’d thought the boy was miraculously good about sleeping through the night, but was it possible that the baby monitor just didn’t pick him up? He pushed that to the side of his mind and vowed to move the crib into his and Michael’s room instead of Randy’s.

“You sure?” Manda quirked an eyebrow, “I can call Pete and he can try out his freshman Psych on her.”

“Oh lord, no. The last thing we need is Pete telling her everything is the fault of her mother.”

Amanda snickered; they waited together until the bus came, then parted ways with a promise to meet up later in the week.

According to Michael, who greeted Paul with a kiss and a mug of chai that he’d put on when Paul had called to announce he was coming back, Miranda had calmed down since Paul left. “That’s good,” Paul said, setting Robbie down in his playpen among a myriad of stuffed toys and things that he was allowed to chew. “Manda was ready to come after her with one of her million black belts.”

“No need,” Michael tugged Paul onto his lap and held him. “She says she honestly didn’t remember about your Mom or Anthony and she didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know,” Paul curled up, resting his head against Michael’s chest. “And I knew that so I shouldn’t have gotten angry like that but I was afraid if I didn’t leave I would have said something nasty to her.”

Michael said nothing, choosing to trace patterns over Paul’s back instead. “Are you okay?” he asked after a while. “Sorry I freaked out on you without asking how you were.”

“It’s okay, really,” Paul toyed with the bottom hem of Michael’s shirt. “I was kind of worried for a while that life would be hard for Robbie ‘cause of stupid people but I’m all right now.”

“You sure?”

“It just means we have to try harder,” Paul said, “And I don’t have a problem with that at all. Let’s just hope Randy doesn’t either, or if she does she doesn’t decide to lose it around Robbie again. It scares him.”

“She’ll get better. And if she doesn’t, maybe we should take her to a counselor.”

They worked out a few more things, like how they were to hear Robbie at night if he stopped crying altogether but was unhappy, or when and where to start learning sign language, and how to go about finding deaf schools or things like that. Finally, Michael flopped sideways on the couch and brought Paul with him, wrapping his arms around his husband’s waist.

“At least there’s one thing we won’t have to worry about that most parents do,” Michael’s eyes were twinkling, and Paul cocked his head.

“And what’s that?” he asked, despite having a pretty good idea.

“If he takes a nap or goes to play outside or watches a movie or something,” Michael grinned almost wickedly, and one hand worked its way up under Paul’s skirt to run up and down his thigh. Paul shivered. “We don’t need to worry about being quiet.”

“There’s still Randy, though,” Paul pointed out, but his brain fuzzed when Michael’s hand did something interesting.

“We’ll buy her a really loud sound system,” Michael sent Paul a roguish wink and slapped his behind, then rolled out from under him and sat up. He picked up Robbie and made a face. “Someone’s stinky. Let’s go find Mommy and remind her how to change a diaper, okay, baby?”

“Your guardian is evil,” Paul said to Michael’s back, and the redhead lifted Robbie’s hand in a wave. Paul stuck out his tongue and followed them.

He did cry that night, despite kicking himself and cursing and telling himself there was no need to be so silly, stifling sobs into Michael’s shoulder. He’d stood over the crib and sung Robbie the lullaby he’d heard as a child, the same as he’d done every night, when it had occurred to him how silly that was. This, happening after they’d read Robbie his customary bedtime story (even if he’d been too young to understand more than pretty pictures, it was a good habit to start, and it got him in the mood for sleep), made Paul lose it in spite of everything.

“It’ll be okay,” Michael said, over and over, petting Paul’s hair. “We’ll make it work.”

Paul just nodded, cuddling up close beside his husband. “It’ll be better in the morning,” he said, mostly to himself.

Robbie stuck a hand through the bars of his crib and waved at them; Paul fought down the instinctive stomach clench and waved back. A few minutes later, Robbie settled himself down and they could hear his soft, measured breathing; not long after that, Michael joined him, and the sound of both of them, Michael snoring and Robbie snuffling, soon tipped Paul over into sleep, as well.

The good thing about family was that they drew strength from one another. As long as all of them stuck together, Paul decided finally, Robbie would be fine.