That’s when I heard it—a thin, frantic cry that stopped me cold. At first, I thought grief was playing tricks on me. But the sound came again, real and urgent, from behind a rusted dumpster.
There, crouched in the darkness, was a girl no older than sixteen. She clutched a newborn wrapped in a worn blanket, his tiny face red as he screamed against the freezing air.
I spoke gently, keeping my distance. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
“Go away,” she snapped, though her voice shook. “Leave me alone.”
“It’s freezing,” I said softly. “The baby needs warmth. You look exhausted.”
Her defenses collapsed. She grabbed my sleeve, trembling. “Please don’t call anyone. They’ll take Milo. They’ll take my baby.”
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