In Orlando, the hotel clerk swiped my family’s card for the third time and shook her head. My father’s voice crackled through my phone, demanding that I fix it. I was sitting in a quiet lounge at Salt Lake City International with Lily asleep against my shoulder. “Olivia, the card is declined,” he snapped. “The hotel says our reservation is cancelled. Fix this right now.” Not once did he ask how Lily was.

I let him finish. Then I told him to check the notice the airline had sent to each of them at landing. The line went silent. Behind him, I heard Tiffany gasp. Two uniformed officers had just walked into the hotel lobby, followed by an airline manager holding a folder. “Sir,” one of them said, “we need to speak with the adults in your party about a child left at Gate C22.”