Cars hiss through puddles behind you. Somewhere across the street, a bus lets out a grumble and pulls away. For a moment, the whole city seems to hold its breath with you.
Then the basket moves.
Not much. Just enough.
You look around, expecting to see a mother crouched behind a tree, a nanny fumbling for a dropped phone, somebody rushing back with panic already on their face. But the park is empty except for two crows fighting over a french fry under a bench and an umbrella rolling upside down across the wet grass like it gave up on life five minutes ago.
You step closer.
Your heart begins to pound for a reason you do not yet understand. You know abandoned things. You know the feeling of being left where someone hopes another person might deal with you. You know the terrifying quiet that follows.
When you lift the edge of the blanket, your whole world changes.
There are three babies inside.
Three boys. Identical. Tiny and red-cheeked and impossibly beautiful, wrapped in matching blue knit onesies so soft they almost shine. Their eyelashes are pale gold. Their skin looks cared for. Their bottles, tucked carefully into the basket, are made of glass. One of them opens his eyes, and the color is so startlingly blue that you actually lean back.
No.
