Max’s head snapped toward the woods, toward a dark patch of overgrowth near the edge of the tree-line. He bolted toward it, paws splashing through shallow puddles, pushing through wet brush until he reached the sound. Tucked behind a log, almost hidden beneath branches and leaves, was a small white Styrofoam box, soaked and stained with mud and rain.

It shifted slightly with the baby’s movement inside. He approached cautiously, sniffing. The scent hit him—newborn skin, milk, fear, and cold.

Inside, barely covered by a thin towel, was a baby girl. Her face was pale, lips tinged blue, her tiny hands trembled, her cries weakening. Something in Max snapped to life, with no one around.