Steve Rogers ran down the same path he did every morning. The rhythm of his feet on the pavement was steady, familiar. He chuckled to himself, remembering the argument from earlier — Thor had actually tried to fling a toaster at Tony for not answering him in time.

That's when he heard it.

A small, thin cry.

Steve slowed, his head turning toward the sound. It came from behind a cluster of bushes near the path. Frowning, he stepped closer.

The cry came again — tiny and weak, like a kitten lost in the rain.

Steve pushed the branches aside and looked down. There, curled up on the cold ground, was a baby. The child couldn't have been more than two years old. Too small. Too thin. Tears streaked the little face as the baby cried, tiny fists shaking.

He looked around. No one else was there. The path was empty. The wind rustled the leaves, but no mother, no father, no one came running.

The baby was so light in his arms. Too light. Steve's jaw tightened as he held the child close.

He turned and began jogging back toward the tower, shielding the baby from the cold morning air.