Across the room, the only person who does not move is the boy in the torn sneakers.
Leo stands there with his bottle bag hanging off one shoulder and Richard’s wallet still clutched in both hands like he has forgotten he came to return it. He is ten years old, thin in the way only hard winters and missed dinners can make a child thin. His hoodie is too light for the season. His knuckles are chapped. But his eyes are locked on the baby as if the room around him has vanished and only the truth remains.
The second beep comes stronger.
Then the room explodes.
“Now!” the surgeon barks.
A respiratory specialist lunges toward the crib while another doctor snaps for suction, pediatric forceps, airway visualization, crash meds, anything. The nurses fly into motion with the raw speed of people who have been pulled back from the edge of surrender and now have no time to waste. Someone pushes Isabelle gently but firmly aside. Someone else tears open sterile packaging. Metal clicks. Plastic rattles. Rubber gloves snap into place.
