“No one touches her.”

It didn’t sound like authority. It sounded like desperation.

The room froze.

Angela moved to the baby, lifting him carefully. He was cold, too still. She pushed aside the doctor’s hand, laid the baby on a cloth, and said quietly:

“I need a dry towel.”

No one moved.

“Get her out!” someone shouted.

“No one touches her!” Richard repeated, now standing, unraveling.

Olivia whispered weakly, “Richard…”

He didn’t look away.

Angela wrapped ice in cloth and began cooling the baby’s head and neck with precision—not panic. She adjusted positioning, cleared the airway, stimulated the chest, reapplied cold compresses. She murmured to herself:

“Hypoxia… little time… lower temperature… buy minutes…”

The doctor watched, conflicted.

“That’s not protocol.”

She looked at him, her eyes sharp with memory.

“And calling it after five minutes is?”

Silence. Because they all knew—the delays, the missing equipment, the hesitation. It hadn’t just been bad luck.

“Who taught you this?” the doctor asked.

Her throat tightened.

“Life did.”

She kept going.

Then the doctor made a choice.

“Reconnect the monitor.”

“Doctor—”

“Reconnect it.”