I walk to my computer, open a web browser, ask for information on baby swaps, and listen. Moments later, I am immersed in folklore. Instead of real stories about swapped children, I quickly learn that a changeling is believed to be a fairy child left in place of a human child. The main reason for the swap is because the infant is sickly, has developmental disabilities, or is afflicted with unexplained diseases.

On cue, the baby starts up, coughing and crying in tandem. Did someone switch my baby because something is wrong with this one?

Upstairs, I run my hand across his cheeks: warm but not hot. Only his chortled snores stutter through the nursery. I pick him up and strap him in the carrier. Worst-case scenarios about Jackson slice through my mind. I grip the sides of my head and bite back a scream.

I replay Jake’s request—stay there—but I’m already defying it. Downstairs, I pull on my shoes again, grab my keys and cane. The earlier fears of being followed in broad daylight are child’s play compared to walking alone late at night. But I have no choice.

The baby quiets with movement. He jostles against my chest, arms and legs bouncing from my brisk pace. Crickets and belchy frogs display their nightly calls, a few sprinklers hissing from obsessive neighbors’ desires for pristine lawns.

I scrape the cane across the sidewalk. I can’t get too lost in thought or I could trip. I grip the baby and think about turning around. I can’t put us both in danger in order to what? Go sit on the park bench and cry?

But there could be a clue or some spark of memory that helps me find Jackson. I force my legs to keep moving, taking a left and then another left. My heart beats in my ears, and I feel the baby’s forehead again. I remind myself to take his temperature when we get back. I stop near the entrance to the park, all of the nighttime nature free to vocalize. The trees sway above me, their leaves already crisping from the insane August heat. I take a deep breath and head toward the playground. I sweep my cane along the earth like those people who look for buried treasure at the beach.

A few feet ahead, it bumps into something. I crouch down to get it, knees popping, and retrieve a shoe. I toss it to the side and wipe my hands on my pants. The turf is buoyant. I stop at the edge of the bench I sat on earlier today, hoping a bum isn’t sleeping or waiting to attack.