The rain was hammering my windshield like gravel. I was driving home from my store when something caught my headlights. I slammed on the brakes and squinted through the downpour.

There, on the narrow shoulder, was a small bundle. I jumped out without thinking. My boots sank into the mud, but I reached the bundle quickly. My headlights caught her face. It was a baby—a newborn, wrapped in a faded pink blanket and soaked to the bone.

She was shivering and crying, barely, more like a whimper, as if she’d cried herself out. I pulled her into my coat, pressing her to my chest. Her tiny fingers were like icicles.