Calle entered the kitchen with his son held snugly in his arms, his head resting on his shoulder as he wailed into the night. He opened the fridge and pulled out one of the bottles of milk his wife had expressed earlier and set to warming it up. He spoke soft comforting words and rubbed a gentle circular pattern on his back but it had no real effect. He moved the baby into the crook of his arm in preparation for feeding. Seconds later, he pulled him away from his bare chest.
"Whoa, Baby, you need a bottle with me."