Shock lasted only a heartbeat before instinct took over. Kayla gathered the infant into her arms, shielding the tiny body with her own soaked jacket, pressing it against her chest in a desperate attempt to share warmth. The baby cried weakly, face red and scrunched, rain streaking across soft skin.
“I have you,” Kayla whispered, her voice shaking. “I am here.”
The crying softened as if the child believed her.
As she adjusted the blanket, her fingers brushed against something cold and solid, a silver chain with a rectangular tag. Lightning flashed, revealing an engraved name.
WALDRON.
Kayla knew that name. Everyone did. It belonged to towering buildings downtown, to charity galas and newspaper headlines, to the kind of wealth that paid guards to chase kids like her away. Her head spun as she stared at the baby’s face, searching for injury or illness, but finding only life and vulnerability.
“You do not belong in the dirt,” she said quietly.