A collective gasp broke the silence. The flashlight beam settled on tiny, shivering bodies nestled together. It wasn’t a baby—kittens, impossibly small, their fur slick with grime, their eyes barely open. They squirmed weakly, squeaking sounds that had so easily mimicked a newborn’s cry. Tina’s knees nearly gave out.
Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob that was equal parts relief and disbelief. She had prepared herself for tragedy, braced for the worst, only to be struck by something astonishingly tender. Tiny lives, clinging desperately under a blanket. She supposed that in her agitation and the traffic noise, she might’ve mistaken their mews for the cries of a newborn.