It was a stormy night at Fire Station #14—the kind where wind rattled the windows and silence settled heavy between emergency calls. I was midway through my shift, sharing coffee and conversation with my partner Joe, when we heard something unusual: a faint cry just beyond the bay doors.

We stepped outside into the cold night and followed the sound until Joe spotted it—a small basket tucked close to the station wall. Inside was a newborn, no more than a few days old, wrapped in a thin blanket, cheeks red from the wind. As I picked him up, his tiny hand gripped my finger, and in that instant, something changed in me.

We immediately contacted Child Protective Services, and they took over from there. They named him “Baby Boy Doe.” But I couldn’t forget his face—or the way it felt when he held onto me. I called every week to check in, hoping for news.

hen one day, Joe asked what had been on my mind for weeks: “You thinking about adopting him?”

The road to adoption wasn’t easy. As a single firefighter working unpredictable hours, the process was full of challenges—paperwork, interviews, home visits. But I couldn’t walk away. That baby had been left at our station for a reason. When no one came forward to claim him, I stepped up.