The cry came again. This time it was human.
Michael dropped the hoe and followed the sound toward the ditch, his heart moving faster with every step. He found the newborn near the muddy rows, wrapped in a faded blue blanket that smelled like rain, dirt, and old cloth.
The cord was still fresh at his belly. His little fists opened and closed against the air as if he were trying to grab onto the world before it left him behind completely.
Michael stood over him for one second and did the math poverty had trained into his bones.
Formula. Diapers. Heat in January. Doctor visits. School clothes.
A man who sometimes ate crackers for dinner had no business picking up a baby the world had already put down.
Then the baby cried again, thin and broken, and something in Michael broke with it.
He knelt in the mud and lifted him with both shaking hands.
