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"I changed religions for that baby."
 A dirty hand goes into the dust of a knapsack. Comes out with receipts and candy wrappers and broken words from her own history.
"I just need the paperwork," I tell her. "I'm sorry, I'm just doing my job."
"You come to my house and you want to talk to me about that baby."
I have a time limit here. I don't have time to think about why she said that baby instead of my baby or even him. I have two more houses to visit in this county today.
"Should be three white pages stapled. And a yellow carbon copy."
"I only have your pink here," she says.
Or why she said your pink instead of the pink copy or your fucking pink copy. I have something to go to when the sun goes down. I am not a one-job one-life kind of man and I have people who expect me at a specific hour.
I'm just trying to piece together a career with my spare time.
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