June remembered a picture of Ted, a younger man, holding up a chubby toddler laughing. She was the baby but the connection was almost impossible to make, no memory to assist her. Perhaps Baby M would have better luck. The toggling between the second and fourth floors continued, with intermittent trips up the cafeteria stairs to the mysterious baby floor. Baby M never left her plastic cradle, yet seemed always content as if waiting patiently. For something. If she wasn't sick, why would she still be here, waiting? Or maybe she had stopped expecting anything else. June had begun to forget that she, in her mid-thirties, could survive outside these medicinally-scented walls.