Leo didn’t waste time. He washed his hands and approached the crib. Noah’s skin was pale, his breaths shallow and frantic.
“It’s okay,” Leo murmured.
He asked Jonathan to help tilt the mattress slightly. With careful hands, he supported Noah’s neck, easing it forward into a more natural position. The movement was gentle but deliberate.
“See? Now it’s open,” Leo said softly.
The sound of Noah’s breathing shifted. Still labored—but different.
Leo placed his small hands on Noah’s chest and began slow, circular motions, then turned him slightly to press near the shoulder blades.
“Breathe… you know how,” he whispered.
The monitors, once plummeting, steadied.
70%… 74%… 81%…
“That can’t be right,” Maria whispered.
Then Noah coughed—strong and clear. A full, angry cry followed. The kind of cry only a living, fighting child could make.
Jonathan broke down. “He’s crying,” he sobbed. “He’s really crying.”
The alarms quieted. Noah’s color returned. Within minutes, he was breathing on his own, gripping Leo’s finger with surprising strength.
Isabella, awakened by the commotion, rushed in and collapsed beside Jonathan’s chair when she saw her son alive.