His throat tightened, but he opened it anyway, because there are moments when you do what must be done even while part of you begs the world to prove you wrong.
Inside, wrapped in old towels that had once been white, lay a newborn, so small that the towels looked oversized, and for one awful second Nolan thought the child was gone from this world entirely, because the baby’s lips were tinted faintly, and his skin felt too cool when Nolan touched the tiny cheek with the back of his finger.
Then he saw it, barely there, the slightest rise and fall of a miniature chest, like a fragile wave that might stop if anyone blinked too hard.
Nolan’s voice broke as he turned and shouted toward the back hall.
“Call an ambulance now! Tell them we have a newborn in critical condition!”
Sirens In The Distance, Breaths Up Close
The station snapped awake the way quiet places do when emergency steps inside, phones ringing, chairs scraping, radios crackling, while Nolan lifted the baby from the bag and cradled him against his uniform, using his own warmth because it was the only warmth available in that instant.
The girl clutched Nolan’s sleeve with surprising strength, her fingers digging into the fabric like she was afraid he might vanish, too.
“I tried,” she said, words tumbling out with her tears. “I used all the towels. I rubbed his hands like they do on TV, and I tried to give him water with my fingers, just a little, but he got so quiet, and then he just… he just stopped.”
Nolan swallowed, because he needed to stay steady, because he could not let a child carry even one more ounce of blame.
“You did the right thing bringing him here,” he told her. “You did exactly the right thing.”
