“Sí, sí!” He dashed back inside.

The crying was getting louder and that was good, but there was still no sign of the wail’s origin. My heart was slamming against my chest as I sorted through the top layer of bags. The bin was deep. I needed to jump inside to remove all the bags, but I didn’t want to step on anything until I had checked it out. Three men came running out of the back door.

“Escalera!”—a ladder—I barked. “Yo necisito una escalera.”

One went back inside, the other two began pulling out bags.

“Careful, careful!” I screamed. “I don’t know where it is!” I used the word “it” because it could have been a thrown-away kitten. When agitated, felines sound like babies. But all of us knew it wasn’t a cat.

Finally, the ladder appeared and I scurried up the steps, gingerly removing enough bags until I could see the bottom, a disc of dirty metal under the beam of my flashlight. I went over legs first and, holding the rim with my hands, lowered myself to the bottom. I picked a bag at random, checked inside, then hoisted it over the top when I satisfied myself that it didn’t contain the source of the noise.

Slow, Cindy, I told myself. Don’t want to mess this up.

With each bag removed, I could hear myself getting closer to the sound’s origin. Someone had taken the time to bury it. Fury welled inside me, but I held it at bay to do a job. At the bottom layer, I hit pay dirt—a newborn girl with the cord still attached to her navel, her face and body filthy, her eyes scrunched up, her cries strong and tearless. I yelled out for something to wrap her in, and they handed me a fresh, starched tablecloth. I wiped down the body, cleaned out the mouth and nose as best as I could, and bundled her up—umbilicus and all. I held her up so someone could take her from me. Then I hoisted myself up and out.

The man who had flagged me down offered me a wet towel. I wiped down my hands and face. I asked him his name.

“Martino Delacruz.”

“Good job, Señor Delacruz!” I smiled at him. “Buen trabajo.”

The man’s eyes were wet.

Moments later, the bundle was passed back to me. I felt grubby holding her, but obviously since I was the only woman in the crowd, I was supposed to know about these kinds of things.

Actually, I did know a thing or two about infants, having a half sister eighteen years my junior. Her mother, Rina—my stepmother—had become very ill after childbirth and guess who stepped up to the plate when my father was in a near state of collapse? (Who could have blamed him? Rina almost died.)

The positive side was the sisterly bonding, at least on my part. Hannah Rosie Decker was my only blood sibling, and they didn’t come any cuter or better than she. I adored her. Matter of fact, I liked my father’s family very much. Rina’s sons were great kids and I loved them and respected them as much as anyone could love and respect step-relatives. Rina took wonderful care of my father, a feat worth noting because Dad was not the easiest person to get along with. I knew this from firsthand experience.