In the distance, a baby wails. Above him drape the angel wings of a pillow fort’s white blankets. As we step closer, stained glass emerges, and a cradle, a candle on cloth. “Waaaaa!” goes the baby. A man hovers over it. “God,” the man says, “why did this have to happen to me?” It’s a gross baby. A fairy buzzes in. “Yes, yes,” the fairy agrees, “your first ones were prettier.” The fairy has a fly’s wings and disposition. The father sighs. His bloated cheeks crumple in self pity.