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sweet time getting here. I haven’t heard a word from you guys since the police brought that child in.”
    “I’m sure that you can understand the workload we’re under. Sometimes things like this slip through the cracks for a while. Rest assured that the state is very interested in the welfare of this child, and we are going to do everything to make sure that he’s brought up in the best possible fashion.”
    “Of that I have no doubt. I’m not upset at you in particular, it’s just this city government we have. There aren’t enough people to do the job. I get cases all the time that require your attention, but all I hear about are waiting lists and need-based care.”
    “We can agree with you on that. We’re doing our best.”
    “Well, now that you are here, let me take you to see little Mr. Doe.” The doctor stood up from his chair and guided the agents to the door. They walked a short way down the tile hallway to the maternity center. Inside were row after row of babies. All in little cribs, all identified only by small paper bracelets. Most were fidgety in their little beds. Some slept. A pair of ragged looking nurses were moving back and forth, trying to feed the hungry ones. “This is the intensive care part of the maternity ward,” said Dr. Espisito. “Mostly premature births and drug addictions.” Dr. Espisito looked downward, “We get a lot of drug addictions.”
    Dr. Espisito pointed at the child nearest to him. It was quite small, and shook quietly in its crib. “This one here had a mother who thought it was ok to use cocaine while pregnant as long as you chased it down with some depressants.”
    “What about baby Doe?”
    “Well, we tested the kid when he got here. He tested positive for cocaine as well as a few other drugs. We were expecting to have to deal with the addiction factor as well as the HS, but that hasn’t been a problem.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Let me show you.” They walked over to Baby Doe’s crib. The child was sleeping. Its large black eyes were closed into almost undetectable slits. The nurses had assumed that since he didn’t have hair he would be cold, so they had given him a rather funny looking cap to wear. It snuggled with a small stuffed bear, sucking its thumb. “He’s asleep. That’s unusual. He doesn’t sleep much.” The doctor grabbed the child’s chart and showed it to the two officers. “You see, we were expecting the child to have all sorts of medical problems stemming from the mother’s drug use, but we haven’t seen anything like that. The heartbeat, the growth rate, food intake; all normal, normal at least for a child with HS.”
    “Why do you think that is?”
    “Well, it’s my guess that whatever genetic deformity causes HS is also somehow involved in brain chemistry. Somehow HS kids are not susceptible to cocaine addiction; maybe they’re missing the receptors? It could be a breakthrough for the drug addiction community. I’m writing a paper on it.”
    “Funny,” said the female agent.
    “What’s that?” said the doctor.
    “This kid has all these problems, he’s like the unluckiest kid in New York, but somehow all that bad luck cancels itself out. And he might be able to help millions of people break their drug addictions. It’s a funny world isn’t it?”
    The three people agreed. They continued standing over the child’s crib for a long time– just watching, and imagining. The child just slept.
     
    Excerpt from “The Reality Behind the Myth,” Published in Fortean Times Magazine, about six months after CPS finally came to see Baby Doe.
     
    “...and the phenomena of superstitious villagers turning deformity into myth has even continued to this day. In the past it was people with pygrophia being labeled ‘vampires’ or people with stunted growth being labeled ‘leprechauns.’ Today it is people with Handel’s Syndrome being labeled as ‘aliens.’ The evidence is clear that although Handel’s Syndrome was