I picked up the prescription bottle. It was made of opaque white plastic, and at the top it said, CONTROLLED DRUG. Possession without authority illegal. Keep out of reach of children. Under that was an orange rectangle with the word “HYPNODORM” printed in white block letters, then in smaller text, Flunitrazepam. There was no patient name, no doctor, no pharmacy listed, but the back was tacky, as if a sticker had been peeled away.

I blinked stupidly at it. She had left me a phone and what sounded like tranquilizers or maybe something for anxiety. I shook the bottle, and it rattled softly. Was this a courtesy drug? Illegal sedatives, meant to calm me through the experience so I wouldn’t screw it up? That seemed insane, which was scary. I didn’t want an insane person to have Robert. But it was also oddly polite. A twisted and somehow female kind of thoughtful.

I opened the bottle and tipped it over into my palm. Half a dozen dark blue capsules fell out. I dumped them back in, then traded the bottle for my phone. I was going to Google “Hypnodorm,” but the old woman’s face still stared up from the screen. It froze me for a second, and then the disposable cell phone rang, buzzing against the marble countertop like an insect. I jerked and dropped my own phone with a clatter. It knocked the pill bottle over, and the capsules spilled across the island. One fell onto the floor, rolling away.

The ringtone was calypso music, tinny and shrill, so cheery that it made me want to scream and smash the phone with my fists, my wrath, a hammer. Instead I picked it up. The screen showed me the caller’s name.

Robert

A number and his name had already been programmed in, so that now it was as if my own baby were calling for me. God, how long had this been planned?

I pushed the green talk button and then hit Speaker, leaving the phone flat on the counter. My hands were shaking so hard I wasn’t sure that I could hold it.

“Please, where is my baby?” But she was already talking, too, over me.

“Did you call anyone? Your husband?” Creaky. Growly. Old. She had a southern accent, thick and rural.

“No. Where is he?” I strained to listen for some sound, a snuffle or a sleepy gurgle, that would prove Robert was with her. All I heard was muffled traffic and the faint hum of an engine; she was driving. With every passing second, he was farther away.

“Or the police? Are you having someone trace this call?” she demanded.

“No, no, I swear,” I said, glad to hear the way it rang with truth. I was glad I hadn’t called, so I could please her. This woman, this stranger, had my baby.