I told myself that was just life.

Then one Tuesday night—technically Wednesday morning—everything changed.

It was around 3 a.m. I was mopping the floor at an interstate rest stop. The place was quiet except for the hum of vending machines and the buzz of fluorescent lights. I’d done this routine thousands of times.

That’s when I heard it.

A sound so soft at first I thought I imagined it.

A whimper.

My hands froze on the mop handle. I stood still, listening. Then it came again—clearer this time. A weak, broken cry.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I followed the sound toward the trash bins near the restroom entrance. Kneeling down, I pulled one lid aside.