Raymond blinked twice quickly as he studied the soft curve of the baby’s cheek.

“Thirty years ago,” Raymond said, his voice raspy but clean, “I loved a girl named Clara Vance.”

I stood quietly beside the mattress, my fingers resting on the corner of the blue wool blanket.

“We were nineteen,” Raymond said.

“Her father ran an engine repair shop down by the Seattle docks, and when she got pregnant, her family moved her away to Spokane overnight.”

“Did you try to find her?” I asked.