It was the dispensary, after all; the dispensaries of surgeons always smell of ether. And for a man who worked so hard and slept so little (if he slept at all), it was natural that sometimes he needed a nap. But Melony suggested to Homer Wells that Dr Larch had a bad habit.

“What's the strange smell he has?” Melony asked.

“It's ether,” said Homer Wells. “He's a doctor. He smells like ether.”

“Are you saying this is normal?” Melony asked him.

“Right,” said Homer Wells.

“Wrong,” Melony said. “Your favorite doctor smells like he's got ether inside him – like he's got ether instead of blood.”

One day in the spring Melony said to Homer Wells, “Your favorite doctor knows more about you than you know. And he knows more about me than I know, maybe.”

Homer didn't say anything.

“Do you ever think about your mother?” Melony asked, looking at the sky. “Do you want to know who she was, why she didn't keep you, who your father was?”

“Right,” said Homer Wells.

“I was told I was left at the door,” Melony said. “Maybe it is so, maybe not.”

“I was born here,” said Homer Wells.

“So you were told,” Melony said.

“Nurse Angela named me,” Homer answered.

“Homer,” Melony said. “Just think about it: if you were born here in Saint Cloud's, they must have a record of it.

Your favorite doctor must know who your mother is. He knows her name. It is written down, on paper. It's a law.”

“A law,” Homer Wells said.

“It's a law that there must be a record of you,” Melony said. “They must have your history.”

“History,” said Homer Wells. He imagined Dr Larch sitting at the typewriter in Nurse Angela's office; if there were records, they were in the office.

“If you want to know who your mother is,” Melony said, “find your file. And find my file, too. I'm sure they are more interesting than Jane Eyre.”

In fact, Dr Larch's papers included family histories – but only of the families who adopted the orphans. Contrary to Melony's belief, no records were kept of the orphans' actual mothers and fathers. An orphan's history began with its date of birth – its sex, its length in inches, its weight in pounds, its name. Then there was a record of the orphans' sicknesses. That was all. A much thicker file was kept on the orphans' adoptive families – any information about those families was important to Dr Larch.

“Here in St. Cloud's,” he wrote, “my first priority is an orphan's future. It is for his or her future, for example, that I destroy any record of the identity of his or her natural mother. The unfortunate women who give birth here have made a very difficult decision; they should not, later in their lives, make this decision again. And in almost every case the orphans should not look for the biological parents.

“I am thinking only of the orphans! Of course one day they will want to know. But how does it help anyone to look forward to the past? Orphans, especially, must look ahead to their futures. And what if his or her biological parent, in later years, feels sorry for the decision to give birth here? If there were records, it would always be possible for the real parents to trace their children. That is the storytelling business. That is not for the orphans. So that is not for me.”

That is the passage from A Brief History of St. Cloud's that Wilbur Larch showed to Homer Wells, when he caught Homer in Nurse Angela's office studying his papers.

“I was just looking for something, and I couldn't find it,” Homer said to Dr Larch.

“I know what you were looking for, Homer,” Dr Larch told him, “and it can't be found. I don't remember your mother. I don't even remember you when you were born; you didn't become you until later.”

“I thought there was a law,” Homer said. He meant a law of records, or written history – but Wilbur Larch was the only historian and the only law at St. Cloud's. It was an orphanage law: an orphan's life began when Wilbur Larch remembered it. That was Larch's law.

Homer knew that his simple note written to Melony “Cannot Be Found” would never satisfy her, although Homer had believed Dr Larch.

“What does he mean, Cannot Be Found?” Melony screamed at Homer; they were on the porch. “Is he playing God? He gives you your history, or he takes it away! If that's not playing God, what is?”

Homer Wells didn't answer. Homer thought that Dr Larch played God pretty well.

“Here in St. Cloud's,” Dr Larch wrote, “I have the choice of playing God or leaving practically everything up to chance. It is my experience that practically everything is left up to chance much of the time; men who believe in good and evil, and who believe that good should win, should wait for those moments when it is possible to play God. There won't be many such moments.”

“Goddamn him!” Melony screamed; but Homer Wells didn't react to this remark, either.

“Homer,” Melony said, “We've got nobody. If you tell me we've got each other, I'll kill you.”

Homer kept silent.

“If you tell me we've got your favorite Doctor Larch, or this whole place,” she said, “if you tell me that, I'll torture you before I kill you.”

“Right,” said Homer Wells.

“Goddamn you!” she screamed – at Dr Larch, at her mother, at St. Cloud's, at the world.

“Why aren't you angry?” she asked Homer. “What's wrong with you? You're never going to find out who did this to you! Don't you care?”

“I don't know,” said Homer Wells.

“Help me, or I'm going to run away,” she told him. “Help me, or I'm going to kill someone.” Homer realized that it was not easy for him, in the case of Melony, “to be of use,” but he tried.

“Don't kill anyone,” he said. “Don't run away.”

“Why should I stay?” she asked. “You're not staying – I mean that someone will adopt you.”

“No, they won't,” Homer said. “Besides, I won't go.”

“You'll go,” Melony said.

“I won't,” Homer said. “Please, don't run away – please don't kill anyone.”

“If I stay, you'll stay – is that what you're saying?” Melony asked him. “Is that what I mean?” thought Homer Wells. But Melony, as usual, gave him no time to think. “Promise me you'll stay as long as I stay, Homer,” Melony said. She moved closer to him. “Promise me you'll stay as long as I stay, Homer,” she said.

“Right,” said Homer Wells. “I promise,” Homer said.

“You promised me, Homer!” she screamed at him. “You promised you wouldn't leave me! As long as I stay, you stay!”

“I promise!” he said to her. He turned away and went to see Dr Larch.

Dr Larch was not in Nurse Angela's office, where Homer had expected to find him; Homer went to the dispensary to see if Dr Larch was there.

Wilbur Larch was on his hospital bed in the dispensary with a gauze cone saturated with ether.

“Doctor Larch!”

Wilbur Larch took the deepest possible breath. His hand lost the cone, which rolled off his face and under the bed.

“Doctor Larch?” Homer Wells said again. The smell of ether in the dispensary seemed unusually strong to Homer, who passed through the labyrinth of medicine chests to see if Dr Larch was on his bed.

“I'm sorry,” Dr Larch said when he saw Homer beside his bed. He sat up too fast; he felt very light-headed; the room was swimming. “I'm sorry,” he repeated.

“That's okay,” said Homer Wells. I'm sorry that I woke you up.”

“Sit down, Homer,” said Dr Larch; he was ready for the conversation.

“Listen, Homer,” Dr Larch said, you're old enough to be my assistant!” Homer thought it was a funny thing to say and he began to smile. “You don't understand it, do you?” Larch asked. “I'm going to teach you surgery, the Lord's work and the Devil's, Homer!” Larch said.

“Homer,” Larch said, “You're going to finish medical school before you start high school!” This was especially funny to Homer, but Dr Larch suddenly became serious. “Well?” Larch asked. “It's not in David Copperfield. It's not in Jane Eyre, either – what you need to know,” he added.

“Here,” Larch said, handing Homer the old copy of Gray's Anatomy^[8], “look at this. Look at it three or four times a day, and every night.”

“Here in St. Cloud's,” wrote Dr Wilbur Larch, “I have had little use for my Gray's Anatomy; but in France, in World War I, I used it every day.”

Larch also gave Homer his personal handbook of obstetrical procedure, his notebooks from medical school and from his internships; he began with the chemistry lectures and the standard textbook. He prepared a place in the dispensary for a few easy experiments in bacteriology.

Homer was impressed with the first childbirth that he watched – not so much with any special skill of Dr Larch. Homer was impressed by the natural rhythm of the labor and the power of the woman's muscles. He was shocked to see how unfriendly the child's new world was to the child.

In the evenings Homer continued the bedtime reading. One day, when he went back to the boys' division, Nurse Angela told him that John Wilbur was gone – adopted! “It is a nice family,” Nurse Angela told Homer happily.

When someone was adopted, Dr Larch changed the traditional benediction to the boys in the darkness. Before he addressed them as “Princes of Maine,” as “Kings of New England,” he made an announcement.

“Let us be happy for John Wilbur,” Wilbur Larch said. “He has found a family. Good night, John,” Dr Larch said, and the boys said after him:

“Good night, John!”

“Good night, John Wilbur.”

And Dr Larch paused before saying the usual: “Good night, Princes of Maine, Kings of New England!”

Homer Wells read Gray's Anatomy before he tried to go to sleep. Something was unusual that night. It took Homer some time to detect what was absent; the silence finally informed him. Fuzzy Stone and his noisy apparatus had been taken to the hospital. Apparently, Fuzzy required more careful monitoring, and Dr Larch had moved him into the private room, next to surgery, where Nurse Edna or Nurse Angela could look after Fuzzy.

Homer Wells thought that Fuzzy Stone looked like an embryo – like a walking, talking fetus. Dr Larch told Homer that Fuzzy had been born prematurely – that Fuzzy's lungs had not developed.

Homer couldn't sleep, he thought about Fuzzy Stone. He went down to the private room, next to surgery, but he couldn't hear the breathing apparatus. He stood quietly and listened, but the silence really frightened him.

“Where is he?” Homer asked Dr Larch. “Where's Fuzzy?”

Dr Larch was at the typewriter in Nurse Angela's office, where he was almost every night.

“I was thinking how to tell you,” Larch said.

“You said I was your apprentice, right?” Homer asked him. “Then you should tell me everything. Right?”

“That's right, Homer,” Dr Larch agreed. How the boy had changed! Why hadn't Larch noticed that Homer Wells needed a shave? Why hadn't Larch taught him to do that? “I am responsible for everything – if I am going to be responsible at all,” Larch reminded himself.

“Fuzzy's lungs weren't strong enough, Homer,” Dr Larch said. “They never developed properly. He caught every respiratory infection.”

Homer Wells was growing up; he started to feel responsible for things. “What are you going to tell the little ones?” Homer asked Dr Larch.

Wilbur Larch looked at Homer; he loved him so much! He was proud as a father. “What do you think I should say, Homer?” Dr Larch asked.

It was Homer's first decision as an adult. He thought about it very carefully. In 193—, he was almost sixteen. He was learning how to be a doctor at a time when most boys of his age were learning how to drive a car. Homer had not yet learned how to drive a car; Wilbur Larch had never learned how to drive a car.

“I think,” said Homer Wells, “that you should tell the little ones what you usually tell them. You should tell them that Fuzzy has been adopted.”

Larch knew that Homer was right. The next night, Wilbur Larch followed the advice of his young apprentice. Perhaps because he was telling lies, he forgot the proper routine. Instead of the announcement about Fuzzy Stone, he gave the usual benediction.

“Good night, Princes of Maine, Kings of New England!” Dr Larch addressed them in the darkness. Then he remembered what he was going to say. “Oh!” he said aloud. He frightened the little orphans.

“What's wrong?” cried a boy called Snowy.

“Nothing's wrong!” Dr Larch said, but the whole room of boys was anxious. Larch tried to say the usual thing. “Let us be happy for Fuzzy Stone,” Dr Larch said in silence. “Fuzzy Stone has found a family,” Dr Larch said. “Good night, Fuzzy.”

“Good night, Fuzzy!” someone said. But Homer Wells heard a pause in the air; not everyone was absolutely convinced.

“Good night, Fuzzy!” Homer Wells said with confidence, and a few voices followed him.

“Good night, Fuzzy!”

“Good night, Fuzzy Stone!”

After Dr Larch had left them, little Snowy started speaking.

“Homer?” Snowy said.

“I'm here,” said Homer Wells in the darkness.

“How could anyone adopt Fuzzy Stone, Homer?” Snowy asked.

“Who could do it?” said another little boy.

“Someone with a better machine,” said Homer Wells. “It was someone who had a better breathing machine than the one Doctor Larch built for Fuzzy. It's a family that knows all about breathing machines. It's the family business,” he added, “breathing machines.”

“Lucky Fuzzy!” someone said.

Homer knew he had convinced them when Snowy said, “Good night, Fuzzy.”

Homer Wells, who was not yet sixteen, an apprentice surgeon, walked down to the river. The loudness of the river was a comfort to Homer, more comforting than the silence in the sleeping room that night. He stood on the riverbank. The boy was saying good-bye to his own childhood.

“Good night, Fuzzy,” Homer said over the river. The Maine woods let the remark without an answer. “Good night, Fuzzy!” Homer cried as loud as he could. And then he cried louder, “Good night, Fuzzy!” He, the grown-up boy, cried it again and again.

“Good night, Fuzzy Stone!”