Daniel glanced out of the tinted window—and froze.

Between two dumpsters, a little girl, maybe seven years old at most, was lying on a pile of trash. Her cheek rested on cardboard, her small fingers tangled in the fur of a trembling dog. The animal shook uncontrollably from the cold.

For a long second, Daniel just stared.

Then something inside him—something he thought had died with his son—stirred.

“Stop the car,” he said sharply.

He stepped out into the night, the snow crunching under his expensive shoes, his breath turning into white clouds in the freezing air. As he approached, the girl stirred. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, terrified.