The baby landed directly in my arms with a sickening thud. I curled my body around it, collapsing to my knees from the force of the impact, doing everything in my power to ensure it suffered as little damage as possible. I stayed there, crouched on the concrete, too scared to check, my heart hammering against my ribs as I prayed for a sign of life. After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, I heard it: a weak, whimpering cry. It was alive.
The parents, a couple in their late forties I vaguely recognized from the building, came running out seconds later. They were sobbing, terrified, grabbing the baby from my arms with trembling hands.
“Thank you, oh my God, thank you! You saved our baby!” the mother kept repeating, her voice choked with emotion. The father hugged me, tears streaming down his face, his gratitude so palpable it was almost overwhelming. An ambulance arrived with screaming sirens and whisked the baby away to the hospital. The parents called me a hero. I went home feeling anxious but undeniably proud of what I’d done.
