BIRMINGHAM—Samantha had a baby. He was eight pounds. Even.

The kid needed emergency open heart surgery. He had a critical congenital heart disease. Doctors rushed him into the OR. Surgery took an eternity. The kid survived.

Today, he’s a teenager. Yesterday, when he got home from basketball practice, he had an epiphany. He told his mom he wanted to go into pediatric medicine. He wants to be a surgeon maybe. Wants to be in cardiac medicine.

“Why, sweetie?” Mom asked.

He shrugged his bony shoulders. She can still see the ropy scar on his sternum, beneath his sweaty tank top.

“Just ‘cause,” he said.

Teenagers.

FORT WORTH—There was a guy who had a car accident. A log truck pulled in front of him on the interstate. No blinker. Bam. It was nasty.

The guy was lying in a vehicle that resembled a crumpled Weltmeister accordion. Logs everywhere.

The fire-medics cut him out of the car. Officials were shocked to find that there were only a few scratches on him. He was dazed, but otherwise fine.

When the highway patrolmen asked him about it, the guy said there was a man in the vehicle beside him during the accident. The man just appeared. The stranger wore white clothes. He had white hair. White beard.

Mid-wreck, the stranger had cradled the man’s head, bear hugged his body, and said, “You’re going to survive this.”

Today, that guy is in his late 70s.

VIRGINIA BEACH—She was walking home from work. She worked in fast food. She was still wearing her uniform. A dog started following her.

It was a Lab mix of some kind, and it was dragging two back legs. Even from a distance, she could see the legs had been crushed. Completely mutilated. A lot of blood.

The vet said it was probably a hit and run. The dog’s ribs were fractured. His head was damaged. Both back legs had been ruined. The woman adopted him.

Rehab wasn’t easy. And surgery wasn’t cheap. They shaved the dog’s backside. They operated for hours. She took out a loan to pay for it all.

The dog lived 11 years thereafter. He died three days ago. He was 14.

His name was Miracle.

KISSIMMEE —There were four Latino men who walked into a supermarket. They were young. Babies, actually. Maybe 15- or 16-year-olds.

They stood at the meat counter. Their clothes hung off them, and their jeans were covered in white splatter and drywall dust. They were counting their cash, standing before the freezers. Pooling their money.

The butcher came out and saw them. He placed a stack of meat atop the counter and told them that, technically, he could lose his job for this, but did they want this meat, because it was expired today. It was several hundred dollars worth of meat.

“The meat is still good,” the butcher explained, “but we have to throw it away because of the expiration date. But if you want it, it’s yours.”

Then the butcher lowered his voice. “Please don’t tell anyone I did this.”

Well. They did tell someone, eventually.

And now I’m telling you.