It was one of those stormy nights at Fire Station 14—the wind howling, rain lashing the windows, and an eerie calm hanging between calls. I was halfway through my shift, sipping coffee and chatting with my partner, Joe, when we heard something unusual: a faint cry coming from just outside the bay doors.

We headed out into the cold, following the sound until Joe spotted it—a small basket nestled against the station wall. Inside was a newborn baby, no more than a few days old, wrapped in a thin blanket, his tiny cheeks red from the chill. When I picked him up, his little hand gripped my finger—and something shifted inside me.

We called Child Protective Services right away. They took over and gave him a temporary name: Baby Boy Doe. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I called every week to check in, just hoping for some kind of update.

Then one day, Joe voiced the question I’d been wrestling with: “You thinking about adopting him?”

The road to adoption was anything but smooth. As a single firefighter with a hectic schedule, the process was filled with obstacles—paperwork, interviews, home inspections. Still, I couldn’t walk away. That baby was left at our station for a reason. And when no one else stepped forward, I did.