Five years ago, I found a newborn crying at the front door of my fire station. I wrapped him in my jacket, called CPS, and told myself I’d forget. I didn’t. That night changed my life — because that baby became my son. It was a bitter winter night. The wind rattled the bay doors of Station 14, and my partner Joe was teasing me about my terrible coffee when we heard it — a faint cry. Outside, a basket sat in the shadows, a tiny baby inside, red-cheeked from the cold. Joe froze. “What do we do?” I lifted...
Continues…