Somewhere inside the wall the child began crying again. John jumped out of the officechair and ran to the spot. The crying was heartbreaking. He laid his hands against the sawdust tapestry. The cold of the concrete struck through the paper and into his palms.
It had to be the plumbing, which brought the crying to him; on the other side of the wall a frosty autumn wind blew three floors above the ground. He put his ear against the wall. The child screamed. He moved up a bit. More powerful. The crying changed into sobs.
John stepped back. Whose child was it? Mrs. Anderson in the apartment below had looked strange at him when he asked a few days ago.
"Here are no children," she said. "Mine left ten years ago, and I still have no grandchildren."
"What about the others attendants?"
"No. Here are no children. "
The crying dimmed away. Not as if the child was comforted, but almost as if it was carried away. John shook his head. The child cried every afternoon at half past one, had done so for a week now, ever since he moved into the apartment.
He went back behind his desk and resumed writing the article about the crisis impact on Wall Street salaries.