I question what to do next. Should I call 911 or Social Services? Officer Toby? I know where the local precinct is—I memorized the location when we first moved. I could be there in less than ten minutes. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. The police will help.

Once the baby is fed another small bottle, I change him, strap him to my chest in the carrier, and make sure the door is locked and the alarm set.

The night is quiet, save for a few vocal crickets and barking dogs. Suddenly, I wish I had taken Chris up on his offer to get me a guide dog. The dog would be able to tell this child isn’t Jackson, just by smell alone.

As I walk, a protective hand slides to the back of this little boy’s head and behind his right ear, where I find a patch of smooth skin. No eczema. Yet another difference. I log all of the ways this baby is not mine. He must appear similar enough to Jackson if Jess didn’t notice. Though, to be fair, how often does she really spend time alone with Jackson? She doesn’t hold him or study him the way I do. I’m sure, at this age, that most babies really do look the same.

At the precinct, I hesitate and then tug open the door. Musty air hangs, stagnant. I acclimate, trying to detect if I’m in a big or small space, if there are many people or few. I clock disgruntled voices. Phones. No echoes. I’ve been in enough stations with Jake to know there’s usually a front desk or partition. I take a few steps forward. Eventually, someone asks: “May I help you, ma’am?”

A muffled voice behind a partition. Ballistic glass, maybe? I track the voice: female. I fold my cane and stop before I accidentally ram the little boy into the chest-height counter. I gather the words but then hesitate. My visually impaired friends’ cautionary run-ins with the police give me pause. Sarah got mugged, but the police didn’t help because she couldn’t identify the perpetrator. Gary’s house was broken into while he was inside, but again, the cops could do nothing. Lucy got into a man’s car who claimed to be an Uber driver, but he wasn’t. She was assaulted and left on the side of the road, but they never caught the guy because she couldn’t give any details—not even the make or model of the car or license plate.

“Ma’am?”

I open my mouth to explain myself, but I already know the way my confession will sound to a stranger. I rock the baby against my chest. What if they take him and then I am left with nothing? No leads to get Jackson back. No … leverage?