And now we were seated in a generic conference room in the office of the director of patient relations, Ms. Betsy Whittier. She had offered us weak coffee and room-temperature water to make us more comfortable. Ruth looked like a sleepwalker, with her messy hair and glasses, no time for makeup or contact lenses. I was in my sleep shirt and a pair of running pants I’d grabbed from the dirty-clothes bin. It was five o’clock in the morning, and it was still dark outside.

The director asked, “Do you think she might have mental or emotional challenges? Any instability?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said. I wanted to nip that in the bud.

“Not that we’re aware of,” Ruth said, leaving open a crack of doubt.

“Well,” said the director, “with hormones radically changed due to the birthing process, post-pregnancy, we have seen unpredictable moods, irrational behavior, that sort of thing.”

“So you’re saying this could be postpartum depression?” I said. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions or use these terms casually. I knew all too well, with Audrey, that PPD was a serious matter.

“What about the parents, meaning us?” said Ruth, claiming her role. Completely composed, she held one of her used tissues in her hand, and pointed at me. “This man right here is the father of that baby. Today. Right now that is his child. Or are you going to argue with us about that, too?”

I sighed and shook my head. I appreciated Ruth’s passion, but I didn’t think there was much gain to be had by going down this particular road.

“I don’t wish to argue with you, Mrs. Olson.” The director rose and stood behind a chair. “I’m going to give you guys some privacy,” she said. “I’ll go to my office to see if there are any updates, and I will let you know, okay? I’ll be back.” The director left the conference room and closed the door behind her.

“We need to call the police,” said Ruth. She scanned the conference room for a phone, but there wasn’t one. Just a waste can, a box of tissues, and a lamp. The rose-colored walls were bare except for one framed poster of an eagle soaring over a waterfall.

“And tell them what?” I asked.

“That our child was kidnapped.” She sighed, annoyed at my apparent stupidity.

I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and drummed my fingers on the table. “Cally is still legally the mother of the baby. So technically, it’s not kidnapping.”

“I don’t need your legalese, Hal.” Ruth turned away. “I don’t care what they call it. She’s missing. We can give the police a description of her car. Put out an all-points bulletin.”