Sister Mary Stigmata cradled the silent baby close to her. Funny, the poor thing hadn't cried all night. In fact, he hadn't made any noise at all since Officer Delaney brought him by after dinner. The sister shook her head sadly. Delaney said some salesman had pulled up to a newstand and tossed a dime for the Gazette. Instead of the newspaper, someone had dropped this sleeping baby through the window of the car, into the salesman's lap. Sister Mary had named him Elwood because he was the fifth child left at the Saint Helen of the Blessed Shroud Orphanage that week, and E was the fifth letter of the alphabet. (It was a pet system of hers.)
Someone coughed at one end of the huge room, and Sister Mary gazed down one long row of sleeping boys. Bits of dreams and muttered nightmares escaped into the dorm. The place was deep with sleep. The orphans insisted that the room, with it's high dim ceilings, hid scary shadows. But it was more a barracks than a haunted house; even fear was too romantic for this building. It was functional, and the sister andher fellow nuns were caring, if impersonal. Still, it was the only house and family these kids had. And right now the home was jammed; not a free bed in sight. Well, the sister couldn't stand there and hold Elwood forever. He'd just have to double up with somebody.
Suddenly Sister Mary knew she was being watched! She whirled around, and staring straight at her-- that amazing hustler's spark in his two-and-a-half-year-old face--was little Jake Papageorge. Wide awake and calm as an undertaker, he checked out the nun and the child in her arms.
"All right, Mr. Papageorge," the sister said, somehow knowing he could understand her, "it looks as though you have a new friend." She placed Elwood in bed with Jake. I'm sure you two will get along famously." Jake made room for the infant as if he's slept there forever. As if they were brothers.