Five years ago, I discovered an abandoned newborn at my fire station and adopted him as my son. Just as our life together seemed complete, a woman knocked at my door, trembling and making a plea that turned my world upside down.
The wind howled that night, shaking the windows at Fire Station #14. I was halfway through my shift, sipping lukewarm coffee, when Joe, my partner, came in. He wore his typical sneer.
“Man, you’re gonna drink yourself into an ulcer with that sludge,” he teased, pointing at my cup.
“It’s caffeine. It works. Don’t ask for miracles,” I shot back, grinning.
Joe sat down, flipping through a magazine.