At midnight I hear his voice; she has fallen out of bed and is crying and he is trying to soothe her.

It is confusing for both of them. He's been trying to get home for three hours, ankle deep in swamp, dark as hell.

She's in a strange, cavernous house.

I pick her up, carry her to my room.

I leave him standing in the half-lit hallway of broken promises.

Why wasn't he here? Why do they worry? What to do?

The story is the same.

At 12:24 the baby screams. We are separate and not sleeping, all of us under this roof.

I am here for him. They are here for them. He is here in a dream.

And Malcolm Gladwell is not the golden boy they describe.