Kim toddled across the crib on his knees to a cacophony of crunching plastic and howling springs and fumbled with the latches to the crib’s drop side. His vision jumped with each hammer of his pulse like the jittery picture broadcast by a video camera sitting on a drumhead. He was gulping air through his mouth, panting loudly, his mind echoing a chorus of remonstrations. The chemical by-products of his passing adrenalin rush were bursting from his pores as beads of sweat and caused his hands to shake so violently that it took three attempts before he successfully manipulated the spring latches and lowered the side of the crib.