“... – Well? - Mr. Button asked breathlessly. – Which one is mine? – That one! - said the sister. Mr. Button looked at where she was pointing her finger and saw this. In front of him, swaddled in a huge white blanket and somehow squeezed with the lower part of his body into the cradle, sat an old man who, no doubt, was close to seventy. His thin hair was whitened with gray, his long dirty gray beard swayed absurdly in the light breeze coming from the window. He looked at Mr. Button with dull, colorless eyes, in which bewilderment flashed. “Am I sane?” - barked Mr. Button, whose horror suddenly turned to rage. “Or is it customary in your clinic to make such mean jokes on people?” “We have no time for jokes,” the sister answered sternly. “I don’t know whether you’re sane or not, but this is your son, you can rest assured...”