“Last Thursday,” one said, “you gave a young woman your coat in the Walmart parking lot.”
“Yes,” I replied. “She needed it.”
“That coat,” he continued, “belonged to your late wife.”
“Yes,” I said again. “And?”
They exchanged a look. Then one of them pulled out a folder and placed a photograph on the table.
It was my coat.
Wrapped around that young woman in a hospital bed. The baby was bundled safely in her arms. Tubes. Monitors. A nurse in the background.
“That woman is my sister,” the man said quietly.
“She collapsed that afternoon,” the other added. “Hypothermia. Severe exhaustion. Hunger.”
My heart pounded.
