My name is Rusty Miller.
My name is Rusty Miller. Forty-nine years old. Twenty-six years on the road. I’ve hauled everything from frozen meat to carnival rides, but the heaviest thing I ever carried wasn’t in my trailer… it was a memory. It happened one winter night in Wyoming— the kind of cold that bites straight through your jacket and into your bones. I was driving east, snow tapping the windshield like impatient fingers, when I saw something that made my stomach drop. A stroller. Right on the shoulder of the highway. No car nearby. No person. Just a stroller half-covered in snow. I slammed the brakes so hard my coffee flew out of the holder. I jumped out of the cab, boots crunching through the icy wind, breath fogging the air. “Hello?!” I yelled. No answer. I moved closer. The stroller wasn’t empty. Inside, wrapped in a thin blanket, was a baby—maybe six months old—cheeks red from the cold, tiny fists curled tight from fear. My heart started pounding. Where was the mother? Where was anyo...