“And what’s your problem? Cat got your tongue? Ahaha!” he squirms out a finger from his whitely clenching fist and jabs it at the sign-wearer in the box.
“And what’s this then?” he adds, peeking in closer, one eye on the box’s lone occupant, one eye on the wriggling thing in those hammily outstretched arms. He looks in the strange silver Mirrors covering the inside of the box, and learns the answer in an instant.
Of course, he already knows. Kind of.
“Hello, Mehgudi!” he purrs, reaching in and retrieving the small package of bundled cloth, from which a tiny hand emerges, coupled with a smallish, fair-olive face framed in soft, dark baby fuzz. “Or Susan, I should say. Hullo, Susan! I’m your grandfather! See?”