“There ain’t no way you can feel the difference between the right amount and the wrong one.”

“Yes huh, I’m good at feelin’ things.”

Paul licked his thumb and unfurled a few more bills. “Well, here then,” he said, handing them to Vern. “Here’s a few extra to feel.”

“You ain’t gotta do that, Paul.”

“’Course I do. You’re a mother now.”

Vern smiled at Paul. Then he kissed the red shock of hair atop the baby’s head. “I is, ain’t I?”

When they reached town, Paul paid a dime to run an ad in the newspaper. The clerk at the office became so fascinated with Paul’s story, he even took the baby’s photo to go along with the advertisement. The man led Paul into a dark room with a single window. He slicked Paul’s hair backward, buttoned up his shirt to the top button, and positioned Paul on a stool with the baby.

“I can’t breathe,” said Paul. “My collar’s too tight.”

“You don’t have to breathe. It’s a photograph, sir.”

The man walked behind a camera and draped a cloth over his head. Paul gave a grin to the camera, but the man instructed him not to smile because it made him appear moderately deranged.

Thus, when the newspaper came out the next morning, on the second page of the Mobile Register was a small column with a black-and-white photo of a frowning man holding a baby on his lap.

“Dadgum,” said Paul, holding a copy of the paper. “I look like someone just kilt my dog.”

The newspaper ad read:

Lost baby rescued near Rabbit Creek, Mobile, Ala. Red hair, violet eyes. In care of Paul Foldger until appropriate person or persons step forward.

Paul was upset about the ad. He walked into the Register’s office and pointed out to the newspaperman that the baby wasn’t a lost child but a found one.

“What’s the difference?” the newsman asked Paul.

“The difference is that this little girl didn’t get lost. She ain’t some puppy who wandered off. Somebody abandoned her, and that needs to be said.”

The clerk didn’t see much of a difference.

For two mornings thereafter, Paul checked to see if anyone had answered the ad, but no one did. The paper ran the advertisement for two more days, and not a single Christian soul came forward to offer help.

So Paul and Vern piled into their rusted truck and drove north, through miles of dry farmland—land ravaged by the boll weevil.

Vern held the news clipping with Paul’s photograph in his hand and studied it. “You look funny in this picture,” he said.

“You’d look funny too if they choked you with your own shirt collar. Lemme see that.”

That frown made him look constipated.

“I wish he woulda let me smile,” said Paul.