Here, the rules shift. The baby no longer wants to be put to bed. He wants you to hold him. For hours. The objective becomes “Maintain Proximity.” Stray too far, and the temperature drops. The walls sweat. A low whisper begins, not in Latin or Sumerian, but in a perfect, mocking imitation of your own inner monologue. “You never wanted this job,” it says in your voice. “You took it for the quiet nights.”