Five days later, Lester sat in the corner of the hospital room, maintaining a morbid silence while the nurse finished packing Ginny's bag. Ginny dressed now and looking pretty, though somewhat drawn, sat in a wheel chair with the infant A.P. held gingerly, as one might hold a small A Bomb, in her lap. All of them watched tensely as the nurse snapped the catch on the bag and left the room. The instant she was gone, Lester was on his feet. He approached the wheel chair and levelled a warning finger under A.P.'s negligible nose.
"I don't know how the newspapers got wind of this," he said, "but I definitely suspect you. The hospital promised to keep it quiet. If any of those reporters get to you, just keep your big mouth shut. Maybe you want to be a side show attraction, but your mother and I don't!"
"Nuts," the baby said briefly.
Lester raised his glance to Ginny. "And if they ask you anything, just don't answer. And try not to cry."
"Oh, Lester!" Ginny said tearfully. "What will the neighbors think? They'll say we're not normal, and that he's a—"
"A monster," Lester supplied. "And they'll be right."
"You don't need to talk about me as though I weren't here," A.P. said evenly. "I can hear every word you're saying."
"Can't we just stay here in the hospital?" Ginny pleaded. "Just a few more days?"
"They won't have him," Lester said, casting A.P. an accusing glance. "He's tried to reorganize the entire hospital. Three nurses, two doctors and five internes have given up the profession, and six patients stole wheel chairs and left without notice. They've given us a deadline until noon to get him off the premises."