He gave a mock salute with one gloved hand and headed out.
I went upstairs to deal with laundry.
I was folding towels on my bed when I heard it.
A faint, broken cry.
I froze.
My heart started racing.
Silence—just the hum of the heater and distant traffic.
Then it came again.
Thin. High. Desperate.
Not a cat. Not the wind.
My chest tightened.
I rushed to the window overlooking the small park across the street.
Under the orange streetlight, on the nearest bench, I saw Jax.
He sat cross-legged, boots pulled up, jacket open. His pink hair glowed in the dark.
And in his arms… was something small, wrapped in a thin, worn blanket.
He leaned over it, trying to shield it with his whole body.
My stomach dropped.
“Jax! What is that?!”
I grabbed the closest coat, shoved my feet into shoes, and ran downstairs.
The cold hit me like a slap as I sprinted across the street.
“What are you doing?! Jax! What is that?!”
He looked up.
His face wasn’t annoyed or defensive.
Just… steady.
Then I saw it.
“Mom,” he said quietly, “someone left this baby here. I couldn’t just walk away.”
I stopped so abruptly I nearly slipped.
“A baby?” I whispered.
And then it was clear.
Not trash. Not clothes.
A newborn.
Tiny. Red-faced. Wrapped in a thin, inadequate blanket. No hat. Bare hands. His mouth opening and closing in weak cries.
His whole body trembled.
“Oh my God… he’s freezing.”
“Yeah,” Jax said. “I heard him crying when I cut through the park. Thought it was a cat. Then I saw… this.”
He nodded toward the bundle.
“I already called 911. They’re on their way.”
Panic surged through me.
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