Once a Baby Moses foundling, graduate set to pursue college
ARLINGTON — A grainy photograph shows a baby, maybe a day old, eyes closed.
He’s strapped into a baby carrier, covered by a white blanket. A tiny hand peeks out. Just outside the shot are a full bottle of milk and one extra diaper.
He doesn’t yet have a name. Later, his birth certificate will list his birthplace as simply “fire station.”
Koregan Quintanilla — the boy whose path seemed so precarious the morning of Nov. 9, 2002 — graduated from Haltom High School outside of Fort Worth last week, one of 559 kids clad in a black cap and gowns.
In 2002, he would have been among the state’s first Baby Moses infants. Implemented just one year earlier, the law allows parents of an infant up to 60 days old to leave the child at a hospital or fire station without questions or punishment.
Wes Keck, the now-retired firefighter who found him that morning outside Arlington Fire Station No. 12, was making coffee and cleaning the kitchen when he peeked outside and did a double take.
“I was shocked,” he said. “We knew fire stations were safe havens, but it still catches you off guard.”
It was chilly outside. The baby was sleeping. Keck touched him to make sure he was breathing. He brought him inside and gathered a couple of other firefighters, who notified dispatchers.
That evening, Becca Wolford received a phone call from her case worker at the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services.
Wolford and her thenhusband, Daniel Quintanilla, had become foster parents three years earlier to their daughter, Emily, and knew they wanted more children.
Five days later, on her own birthday, Wolford met the baby left at the fire station. He was tiny, just under 6 pounds, and calm.
“It was love at first sight,” she said. “I knew he was meant for
“It was love at first sight. I knew he was meant for us.”
Becca Wolford, adoptive mother of Koregan Quintanilla
us.”
Growing up, Quintanilla would often ask to watch his birth video, and his mother would play a video of an old news clip.
For his 10th birthday, he asked to return to his fire station and meet Keck and other firefighters who there that day.
News outlets covered the story. Standing next to his father, Quintanilla smiled and answered questions from reporters, a dozen or so microphones in his face.
“Something like this stays with you,” Keck said. “It’s not something you forget.”
The two still keep in touch, mostly through occasional text messages and social media.
Quintanilla sometimes wonders about his birth parents. Who are they? Where are they?
“It does cross my mind every once in a while,” he said. “It’s weird to think there’s someone out there with a biological connection, because I truly feel like I grew up with my family.”
“I believe his birth mother was kind and good because he is kind and good,” Wolford said. “He’s just a phenomenal kid. You feel different when you’re with him.”
In the fall, Quintanilla plans to attend the University of Texas at Arlington, not far from where he was found 18 years ago, to study journalism and political science. Someday, he hopes to work in the White House press corps and cover national politics.
Although Quintanilla loves to sing, he said he doesn’t typically enjoy singing by himself onstage. Recently, though, he sang a solo, Sinatra’s “My Way,” at his school’s senior farewell concert. In the audience, his mother cried.
“When did he grow up?” Wolford said. “When did this happen?”