She asked for Digger’s name and where I thought they might be. I said I didn’t know, that was why I was calling. She said that without an address, all they could do was put her in their missing child database. She asked for a physical description and the birth certificate. I said I didn’t have it because she was only three days old.

“Okay, the officers will need proof that she is your child and that you are the authorized custodial parent. Usually, there is a court order or at least a birth certificate.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, annoyed.

“You might want to apply for the birth certificate and expedite it. Do you have an attorney?”

“No, I mean . . . no,” I said. Hal was the only attorney I knew.

“I’ll give you the number for Legal Aid, and they can get you a volunteer lawyer, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’ll need a court order from Douglas County Court, okay? Because once we locate your daughter, we’ll need documentation before the child can be released from temporary placement or foster care.”

“Foster care? Are you serious?”

“Yes, miss. That’s why it’s usually more successful, if a parent can convince their partner, boyfriend, whomever is involved in the domestic dispute, to voluntarily hand over the child. That way, you can gain immediate custody.”

“Yeah,” I said. Obviously.

“So I have made a record of this report, and I have placed your information into our database,” said the woman. “We’ll contact you if we have anything, and please call back if you have more details, okay?”

After I hung up, I turned around and saw that Amanda must have heard every word I said. She looked at me with raised eyebrows, a combination of pity and fascination.

“So do you need a ride?” she asked.

“I need to get to the Blue Anchor Grill,” I said. “Can you take me?”

“No, I’m working, but my grandma can. She has a local ride service.” Amanda swooped over to the desk, picked up the phone I’d been using, and started dialing.

“Your grandma? How old is she?” I needed a young person, someone who could drive fast. In the snow.

“She’s like sixty, why?” said Amanda. “Hi, Gram.” She smiled at me and carried on her phone conversation. Then to me she said, “We only live about a mile and a half away.”

“Okay,” I said. I grabbed the White Pages and looked up Wilkins. No listings.

“She’s on her way,” said Amanda, hanging up and grinning.

“Have you heard of the Wilkins Farm? Or Deena Wilkins?” I said.

“No, why?”

“I think my boyfriend is there, and I need to find him.”

“Where is it? Near here?” asked Amanda.

“I don’t know. That’s why I have to go to the Blue Anchor Grill,” I said. “I think somebody who works there might know.”