The liquid slid past Coleman’s lips. The room held its breath. Thirty seconds. The monitors beeped. Sixty. The numbers steadied. Ninety. The baby’s skin began to flush with faint shades of pink. Vivian sobbed, dropping to her knees. Gregory covered his mouth, eyes wide with primal hope.
Dr. Rook stepped back as if pushed by an invisible force. His voice was a whisper. “He is stabilizing.”
An earthquake of emotion moved through the room. Jermaine felt tears sting his eyes.
Vivian stood and walked to him. “How did you know?”
Jermaine looked down. “My grandmother taught me to pay attention. That is all.”
Two days later, Jermaine sat on a velvet chair in Gregory Sutcliffe’s office, feeling like an intruder in a museum. Shelves of first-edition books stared down at him. A fireplace crackled even though the weather was warm.
Gregory entered. His suit jacket was gone. His sleeves were rolled. He no longer looked like a headline. He looked like a father.
“You saved my son,” Gregory said. “And I do not know how to balance that ledger.”
Jermaine fidgeted with his sleeves. “I just spoke up.”
“That is more than most adults manage,” Gregory replied.