These were fighting words and Ruth knew it. However, because I was driving, I maintained my composure until I could put the vehicle in park. As I approached Cally’s street, I was lucky to find a parking spot among the irregular piles of snow and the inadequate plowing. “Here’s a spot,” I said, pulling over to the curb a few buildings short of Cally’s. I shifted into park and switched off the ignition. The fan blower went silent. “I know the contract,” I said firmly. “I wrote it.”

We sat with that statement for a few moments. Then Ruth said what she’d apparently been thinking this whole time. “We should’ve had a real surrogacy lawyer write it.”

I took a deep breath. A distinct unease filled the car. I opened the door and cold rushed in, shaking us out of our battle positions. “Let’s go see what we can find,” I said as I climbed out over a snowbank and onto the sidewalk.

Ruth got out and followed in my footsteps. She motioned with her mitten and we trudged along the frozen, snowy path, careful not to slip or twist an ankle.

“Do you see her car anywhere?” I asked.

“Not yet,” said Ruth, but I couldn’t be certain how carefully she’d been looking.

“It’s red,” I added, but Ruth knew that. “A four-door Chevy Cavalier.” Maybe saying it would help us find it. We wandered up and down the snowy street, searching for sedans, but most of them were covered in snow, or the wrong color, or the wrong make.

“I’m going up,” Ruth said as we gravitated back to the apartment building entrance.

I pushed the button for 3F, and we waited, marching in place and seeing our breath. I jiggled the front door just in case. Ruth pressed her forehead up against the cold glass and peered in. There was a wall of mailboxes, with envelopes sticking out of the box marked 3F, which would make sense, because Cally had been in the hospital since Thursday.

“Her mail’s still there,” said Ruth.

“Didn’t you say she gave you a key to her apartment,” I asked, “in case she needed something?”

“Yes, but it’s at home, I think. Hang on.” Ruth checked her purse, and it appeared we were back in sync. “It must be at home.”

“Ruth.” I sighed, frustrated that Ruth hadn’t anticipated our need for the key. We could have stopped at our place first. We could have avoided this delay.

“Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking about breaking into her apartment this morning at five a.m. when I found out our baby was gone.”

“Okay, okay, relax. Let’s just go look in the back for her car,” I said, trooping around the side of the apartment building. “It has to be here somewhere.”