Once the baby’s full, I burp him and change him, wiping over and over again until I can tell he’s clean, then figure out how best to put him to sleep. What works for Jackson doesn’t work for him. I clock the differences, categorizing them in my brain one after the other. When he’s settled, I rummage in the dresser and remove the thermometer. I take his temperature and wait for the audio reading: 99.1. I exhale. A little high, but nothing dire. Once he’s asleep, I tiptoe back downstairs.

“What distinguishing marks does Jackson have?” Jake launches right back into questions. “Birthmarks? Moles?”

Sadly, I shake my head. “He just has a bit of eczema behind his right ear. But no birthmarks.” I hand him my phone again, queued up to photos. “The nurse described every square inch when he was born. His pediatrician updates me at every appointment.”

“Speaking of the pediatrician, something we could do immediately is the footprint examination. Most hospitals use a digital footprint now instead of ink. Enters each child into a national database. I’ll see if I can access the police fingerprint analyst to check if he’s a match.”

“That’s perfect.” I exhale, turn, and rake my hands through my hair. “But what if this baby doesn’t have a digital footprint?”

He rubs his head. “Hopefully he’s in the system. If we can somehow get him rescanned, all his information should be there. We need to get Jackson’s footprints too, so we can have the comparison done immediately.”

Tears spring to my eyes and I slap a hand to my chest. “Thank God.”

“That still doesn’t mean much though,” he explains gently. “It just proves this child is not yours. It doesn’t lead us to Jackson. But it could lead us to this kid’s parents at least.”

“Right.” I squeeze my hands together. “So what now?”

“We’ll visit the park first thing in the morning, talk to moms. I’ll see if one of the neighboring businesses has any surveillance footage. And we need to talk to your friends—friends who know Jackson.” He pauses. “You went to your friend Crystal’s right after you hit your head, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hold Jackson?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t. Crystal helped me with my face. He stayed in his stroller.”

“No one picked him up.”

“No.”

“I hate to say this, but because you’re visually impaired, it’s going to make protocol more challenging.” He hesitates. “Not impossible, but it’s critical that someone can confidently confirm that this child isn’t Jackson. That’s step one.”

I nod. “Of course.” Inside, I panic. None of my friends, except for Jess, have held Jackson in the last few weeks. At this age, babies change on an almost daily basis.

“I’ll need a list of your contacts.”