I was seven years old when I pulled a millionaire and his baby from a wreck in the Tennessee rain, and recognized his face from a photograph my dead mother kept hidden under her pillow.

I lived with my mother in a tiny shack off County Road 7 near Pine Ridge, Tennessee, until she passed away from pneumonia the winter before.

After that, I stayed alone in that cold little shack, because I had nowhere else to go.

I learned to survive on what I could find, and I learned to be invisible.

On that rainy October night, I was curled up on a pile of old blankets, listening to the storm pound the tin roof.

The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, and I shivered even with three layers of clothes on.

My mother’s old rain jacket hung by the door, and I could still smell her faded rose perfume on the collar.

Sometimes I would bury my face in it and pretend she was still there.

I missed her so much it felt like a stone in my chest.

She used to hold me close and say, ‘Abby, no matter what happens, you are stronger than you know.’

I didn’t believe her then.

But that night was about to prove her right.

Suddenly, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.

It was the screech of tires and then a horrible metallic crash, followed by a heavy thud.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I jumped up from the blankets and ran to the broken window.

Through the sheets of rain, I could see a dark shape on the road, and a faint light blinking.

I didn’t stop to think.

I grabbed my mother’s old rain jacket from the hook by the door, and I ran outside into the storm.

The mud sucked at my bare feet as I raced down the dirt path toward the road.

The rain stung my eyes, and the wind pushed me back, but I kept running.

Branches whipped against my legs, and my hair was plastered to my face.

I remember thinking that I couldn’t let fear stop me.

When I reached the road, I saw a twisted luxury car lying on its side in a ditch.

The headlights were still on, cutting through the rain like two pale beams.

Glass glittered all over the wet asphalt, and smoke rose from the crushed hood.

Then I heard it.

A baby was crying.

The sound pierced through the roar of the storm and grabbed me by the heart.

I followed the cries around the wreck and saw a man lying on the muddy ground, completely still.

He was clutching an infant to his chest with one arm, and even unconscious, his grip looked fiercely protective.

The baby was screaming in a tiny blue blanket, drenched and terrified.