It’s just past 8:00 p.m. when the rain starts coming down harder, turning from a light mist to a steady downpour. Your hoodie is already damp, clinging to your arms, and your boots splash through uneven puddles on the cracked sidewalk. The buzz of the streetlights above flickers like they’re tired of trying. You hug your backpack closer, head down, hoping to get home before your mom starts calling again.

You take the usual shortcut behind Patel’s Market. It’s darker there, but faster. The air smells like wet cardboard and old fruit. You’re halfway through the alley when you hear it—faint, almost swallowed by the rain. A cry. Soft. High-pitched. You freeze. It’s not a cat. You’ve heard alley cats before, screaming like banshees. This sound is different. Fragile.

You take a step toward it, heart thudding. The cry comes again—shorter now, choked. You round the corner behind the dumpsters and stop. There, beside an overflowing bin, is a cardboard box. It’s sagging from the rain, the edges curling inward. A towel—no, a torn bath towel—hangs over one side. You kneel, your jeans soaking instantly.

Inside the box is a baby.

A real baby. Tiny. His skin is flushed and blotchy, his fists balled up tight. The towel is barely covering him, and his lips are tinged blue. You gasp. You don’t think. Your hands move on their own, lifting the damp bundle against your chest.

He’s so cold.

You press him closer to your body, trying to share your warmth, whispering, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” His crying quiets a little, more like soft hiccups now. You look around, as if someone might be standing nearby, watching, waiting. But the alley is empty. Only the rain. Only you.

You glance down again. His eyes are barely open. He can’t be more than a few days old. Maybe less. No note. No bag. Just a baby left in a box behind a grocery store.

Your thoughts start to spin—What do I do? Who do I call? Do I go to the police? What if they take him away? What if they think you had something to do with this?

You shift your arms, adjusting the towel. Your fingers brush his tiny hand, and it curls instinctively around your thumb. That’s all it takes. Something inside you cracks open.

You can’t leave him.

Not here. Not like this.

You stand up, holding him tight to your chest, shielding him from the rain as best you can. The streetlights cast long, watery shadows ahead of you, and for a second, everything feels too big. You’re seventeen. You don’t know anything about babies. You’ve got exams in a week. You were supposed to be home twenty minutes ago.

But the baby shifts in your arms, lets out a faint sigh, and presses his cheek against your collarbone like he belongs there.

You take a deep breath.

Then you start walking.