One moment, I was washing dishes. The next, water was rising fast. Power went out. The door jammed. I grabbed the kids and ran upstairs, shaking.

Then—a knock on the window.

A man in a yellow jacket stood waist-deep in floodwater. “I’ve got you—just hand them to me!”

I passed Liam and Nora through the window. He held them steady and walked through the flood like it was nothing. A boat pulled up. He got them in, turned to go back.

“Wait!” I yelled. “What’s your name?”

He just said, “Tell them someone was looking out for them today,” and disappeared.

At the evac center, I asked everyone—no one knew who he was. Someone said a man in a yellow jacket had saved a dog too, but they didn’t know him either.

Back home, the damage was worse than I imagined. Mud everywhere. But there, on the stairs—muddy footprints leading to the broken window. His.

Later, we moved in with my sister. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I started walking the neighborhood, asking questions. One man told me the house he disappeared toward had been empty since a fire last year. The former owner? A firefighter.

I knocked on that door. No answer. But taped to the mailbox was a crayon drawing—my kids had drawn it. Him, in yellow, holding them. “Thank you,” it said.

I left a note of my own.

Two weeks later, he showed up at my sister’s house. “Heard your place took a hit. Thought you might need help,” he said, toolbox in hand.

He never gave his name. Just worked hard for three days—then vanished again.

Months later, when Nora got pneumonia, a nurse told me a man came to the ER asking about her. Didn’t give a name. Just left a note: “She’ll be okay. She’s strong like her mom.” With it was a plastic firefighter badge.

Now and then, I still find small signs: a rake after a storm. Soup on the porch when I’m sick. A flower left by the hydrant.

Maybe I’ll never know who he was.

But I do know this: kindness doesn’t always wear a name tag. And sometimes, the people who save us never want to be found—they just want to help.