Lacking a proper incubator, I put in in my bra.
That night I had to work a shift at Dairy Queen. I was the most careful and deliberate Blizzard-maker you ever saw. That night I slept lightly, on my back, with all my supportive undergarments in place. Also with the incubating wildlife in place.
The following evening, I had a double date. It was a warm spring evening, and I wore a tank top. With a you-know-what tucked carefully into my you-know-where. Unfortunately, as I swung myself into the backseat of the car I felt a distinct, ahhmm...... well, let's just say when a bird's egg cracks in your bra you can feel it.
I ran back into my house and changed, and was infinitely relieved that the contents of my egg/bra were pretty much kitchen-friendly egg-contents, and not some half-baked baby bird.
All that to say: this poor chickadee has no idea why she is in my shirt. But you do.