The road was quiet as the man drove steadily down the center lane. Next to him, his aging dog rested peacefully in the passenger seat, its eyes half-closed.

Out of nowhere, a car appeared ahead, crawling slowly along the shoulder. Something about it felt off. Suddenly, the rear door cracked open, and a large black  trash bag was tossed onto the roadside. Without pause, the vehicle sped away and vanished around the bend.

The man sat up straighter, unease prickling at his spine. His dog let out a low growl and lifted its head, alert. As they neared the spot, the  bag on the ground twitched.

He slammed the brakes.

Heart racing, he jumped out and approached the bundle. Rain had muddied the fabric, and the plastic was soaked through. He knelt and reached for it — just as something inside shifted.

His stomach turned.

Carefully, with shaking fingers, he pulled a pocketknife from his jacket and cut into the bag. Beneath the layers of plastic and damp cloth, he saw something impossible to ignore: a tiny hand.

A child’s hand.

He staggered back, stunned. Then, regaining focus, he gently pulled back the rest of the fabric. There, bundled tightly, was a little boy — maybe two years old — his face streaked with dirt, lips pale, eyes shut.

Wasting no time, the man wrapped the boy in his own coat and carried him back to the car. His dog leaned in, softly whimpering, and gave the child a tender lick on the cheek. The boy exhaled faintly, then went still again.