Scrapped Together

Chapter Four: Early Baby

Baby Floyd was sick. Very sick.

Once they'd arrived at her pod Grandma Rosiepuff sat everyone on the couch and took a long, measured breath.

John Dory listened as she explained to them that baby Floyd hadn't been moving much inside the egg as he grew. She said that while it was not entirely unheard of to have a baby that didn't shift positions often, Floyd hadn't so much as rocked his egg in the past week, and that such stillness was cause for concern. That morning however, the morning he was born, the egg had begun to grow cold.

When an egg lost all of its heat, Grandma explained, it meant that the baby inside had passed away.

When mom first noticed the drop in temperature she'd sent dad to fetch Grandma Rosiepuff. Grandma, whose grand-niece, a word John Dory had never heard before, had lost two babies while still in the egg, had come running. Doing her best Grandma tried everything she could think of, everything she had tried in the past, and more, to help.

However, when all of their attemps to rewarm the egg failed, it left them with a choice: to allow whatever was going to happen, to happen, or, force the hatch and hope that love, nourishment, and hot water bottles would be enough to sustain Floyd's fragile little life.

They'd chosen the later, and very carefully broke and picked away at the shell, until the tiny baby was born. Now, all they had left to do was love him, and give him every opportunity they could to flourish, and grow.

John Dory sat staring grimly at the wall, absorbing all the information that Grandma Rosiepuff had given him, as she offered to lead them in prayer. Their parents didn't pray, and John Dory wasn't sure who this "Loving Creator" was, but praying seemed important to Grandma, and made her feel better. So, even if he couldn't shake himself from his brooding, or offer any sort of attention to the words she was saying, John Dory scooted a little closer to his brothers who clasped their hands together and bowed their heads.

John Dory meanwhile couldn't shake the disturbing mental imagery that had taken hold of his mind. Rubbing sweaty palms on the couch he pictured the egg, so fragile, so precious, with its tiny tuft of pink hair peeking out of the top. It made him nauseous to imagine someone, anyone, doing harm to the egg. But the idea that they'd cracked it, opened it up and pulled the baby, baby Floyd, out into a world he wasn't ready for? It made him absolutely sick to think about.

Then, John Dory pictured the use of a hammer, and shuddered. The little boy knew that Grandma wouldn't lie to him, and if she'd said it was necessary to break the egg and force the hatch, then he believed her. It just didn't mean he had to like it.

When the others had finished what they were doing when, in a manner typical of him, Spruce began to rattle off an endless slew of anxiety ridden questions.

"Grandma, is baby Floyd gonna be alright?" he asked, getting up to follow her as she set about making a light snack for the boys, and tea for herself.

"I don't know, sugar plum." Grandma said truthfully as she started making sandwiches.

"Can he go back in the egg?" he asked, tail swinging from side to side in sharp, aggravated movements.

"No, he can't." she shook her head.

"Why not?" Spruce pressed.

"He just can't, the egg is broken."

"But he's too little." Spruce stated before diving back into his inquisition. "When will he get better?"

"I don't know."

"When can I hold him?"

"I don't know."