The December wind cuts through my uniform as I step out of the fire station, six weeks of forced vacation stretching before me like an endless void. Captain Eastman's concern was obvious, but what he doesn't understand is that work is the only thing keeping the memories at bay—the night my family died, the flames, the screams.

I pause at the sound of a faint cry, barely audible over the wind. At first I think it's just a cat, one of the strays that hang around the dumpster. But it comes again, more insistent this time.

Following the sound to the side of the building, I find a duffel bag half-buried in snow next to the trash containers. Another cry emanates from within, muffled but unmistakable. Not a cat.

My gloved hands fumble with the zipper as my heart pounds. When I finally open the bag, I gasp. A baby—no more than two months old—stares up at me, tiny face screwed up against the cold. He's dressed in nothing but a thin onesie, shivering violently.

"Oh no, you poor thing," I murmur, carefully lifting him out. He's freezing, his little hands ice-cold against my skin.

"Bobby?" Juan, the overnight security guard, appears at my shoulder.

"Call 911," I bark, wrapping the baby in my scarf. "Tell them to send an ambulance immediately."

As I cradle the infant against my chest, something about him calms instantly in my arms. The cries stop, replaced by wide, curious blue eyes that lock onto mine. It's like he's been waiting for me.

I roll up his sleeve to check for injuries and freeze. On his tiny wrist, clear as day, is the mark that will define his life—a beta symbol.

In this world, that mark makes him worthless in society's eyes. Unwanted. Unloved.

I look down at his perfect little face and make a silent promise. Not by me.