"She will be fine," Robert whispered. "Babies get fevers. They check her, they give her something, we go home."
"I know," Victoria said. "I just want them to call her name."
"Lean on me," Robert said. "You have been up since five."
Victoria leaned her head against his shoulder. Gwen settled. Victoria told herself she would close her eyes for one minute. She did not remember falling asleep. She remembered only the quiet, and then a sudden cold feeling.
She woke up and Gwen was gone.
"Robert," she said. "Robert, where is she?"
He was standing now, his face white. "I went to get water. I was gone two minutes. I thought you had her."
"I did not have her. I was asleep. Where is my baby?"
Her voice rose. People turned. Victoria stood so fast the diaper bag fell. She looked under the chairs, at the hallway door, at the desk.
"My baby is gone," she said to the nurse. "My daughter was right here. She is three months old. Someone took her."
The nurse came around the desk at once. "When did you last see her?"
"Minutes ago. My husband went for water. I fell asleep. Please, check everywhere."
"We are checking," the nurse said. "I am calling security now. What was she wearing?"
"A white onesie," Victoria said. "With a yellow blanket. Her name is Gwen. Gwen Ashford."
Robert took her hands. "Victoria, breathe. They will find her. She cannot have gone far."
"Then where is she?" Victoria cried. "Robert, where is she?"
They searched the waiting room and the hallway, the bathrooms and the stairwell. Victoria called Gwen's name until her throat hurt. Nobody had seen a baby.
The police came. An officer with a notebook asked Victoria to sit down, and Victoria could not sit down.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
"I fell asleep," Victoria said. "I fell asleep in a hospital waiting room, and someone took my daughter. I want her back."
"We are going to find her," the officer said. "Did you see anyone near you? Anyone interested in the baby?"
"No," Victoria said. "No one. I was asleep. I did not see anything."
Robert answered the rest. He told the officer about the water, about the two minutes, about the blanket. He gave the officer the photo from Victoria's purse. More officers came. They checked the parking lot and the entrances. They found nothing.
Hours passed. The waiting room emptied. Victoria sat with her hands empty in her lap, and Robert sat beside her. Every time a door opened, Victoria stood up.
Near dawn the officer came back. "We have searched the building. We have no leads yet. We will keep looking. Go home. We will call you."
"I am not going home without my daughter," Victoria said.
"I know," the officer said. "But there is nothing more to do here tonight."
Victoria did not remember the drive home. She remembered the empty car seat, and the house, too quiet.
Twenty-five years later, she stood in that same nursery in Seattle.
Nothing had changed. The crib was still there, the mobile still hung above it. Clara had dusted the shelves that morning, as she had every week for twenty-five years. Victoria picked up the tiny knitted cap and held it to her chest.
"You kept it all," Clara said from the doorway. "Every blanket. Every toy."
"I could never put it away," Victoria said. "If I put it away, it meant she was gone forever. I could never believe that."
Clara stepped closer. "And now?"
"Now a waitress at The Copper Lantern has a star on her right wrist," Victoria said. "The same star. And a scar on her left wrist from her birth. Clara, I saw it with my own eyes."
"Then she is alive," Clara said. "Victoria, she is alive."
"I think she is," Victoria said. "But I have spent twenty-five years being careful with hope. I asked her for a DNA test. I gave her my card. I have been waiting for her to call."
She sat in the rocking chair and rocked. She thought about the waiting room, about waking up to empty arms, about all the nights she had whispered for Gwen.
The phone rang.
Victoria stood so quickly the chair kept rocking. She saw the name on the screen. Hannah Brooks.
"Hello?" she said.
"Mrs. Ashford," Hannah said. "It is Hannah. From the restaurant. I have been thinking about what you asked."
"Yes," Victoria said. "Take your time. There is no rush."
"I have decided," Hannah said. "I will do the DNA test. I need to know. I think you need to know too."
Victoria closed her eyes. Twenty-five years of silence, and then this voice, steady and brave.