“Hey there,” said the clerk. This was a female voice. She was young; she looked about my age and like she had a lot more energy than this job required.

“Hi,” I said, out of breath. “Did you see a guy in here with a baby in a car seat?” I untied the flannel shirt and set down my backpack.

“Uh, no, but I came on at two. What time was he here?” she asked.

“I don’t know if he was,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“I can call Tim. He worked the shift before me.”

“Okay, maybe,” I said, moving to the back. “I’m just gonna use your bathroom.”

“Oh, sure,” the clerk said, pointing.

Inside the bathroom, I caught my breath and exhaled. I hung my backpack on a hook and shook out my hair. I looked in the mirror. No makeup. Bags under my eyes. I hadn’t had a chance to clean myself or any place to do it, and I looked scary. I splashed my face with cold water and dried it with a paper towel, more to help me think than anything else.

Where would Digger go? He didn’t know Hal and Ruth’s last name or address or anything about them except that Hal was a lawyer and Ruth worked for the paper. He didn’t know where the fertility clinic was or anything like that. He only knew which hospital I’d given birth in. Would he take her there?

The door opened, and the clerk walked into the bathroom.

“Sorry,” she said. “I have to pee.” She headed to the handicapped toilet stall. My backpack was still hanging on the hook in there, but she didn’t seem to care. I listened to her rustle her pants down and then the trickle sound. Suddenly, I had to go, too, and I took the second stall.

“So,” said the clerk from her stall, “where’re you from?”

“Minneapolis.” I didn’t plan to say much, because I hate talking to people in bathroom stalls. Also the Olsons were probably out looking for me and the baby, or maybe they’d called the police on me. But I didn’t know what my options were at this point. Maybe I needed to call the cops on Digger. But what would I say?

“Yeah. When we get people in here from out of town, they’re usually from the Cities.” The clerk flushed and flung open her stall door, then scuffed along to the sink. “I’m Amanda, by the way.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to give her my name. I waited while she washed her hands and pulled down a paper towel.

“So, no gas for you?” she asked.

I flushed and came out of the stall. “No,” I said, washing my hands.

“I know,” she said, chucking her used towel in the trash. “I saw you walking.”