Michael exhaled slowly, steadying his voice. “This isn’t pity,” he said. “It’s winter. And it’s Christmas Eve. No one should be out here with a newborn.” The woman hesitated, clutching the baby tighter. Up close, Michael could see how young she really was—sunken cheeks, cracked lips, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. Fear lived in her bones. Kelly stepped forward before Michael could stop her. “It’s okay,” she said softly, holding out her small mittened hand. “We just want him to be warm.” The woman stared at Kelly, something breaking in her expression. Slowly, her shoulders sagged. “My name is Lily,” she whispered. “His name is Noah.” Michael felt his throat tighten. Noah—the name Sarah had wanted if they ever had a son.