The dim blue glow from the baby monitor filled the room with a cold, sterile light. Emily held a stopwatch in one hand and a small notebook in the other. Her attention was absolute. Focused. Controlled. She wrote things down with precision that felt almost clinical.
Every so often, she would gently touch Noah’s face, then his chest, then his feet—always in the same sequence. It wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Practiced.
When Noah suddenly cried out, sharp and strained, my heart jumped into my throat.
But Emily didn’t panic.
She leaned closer, her voice calm, steady.
“I’m right here… breathe with me… slow… that’s it…”
Then everything shifted.
In a matter of seconds, Noah’s body stiffened. His back arched, his breathing turning erratic, his eyes unfocused in a way no parent could ever mistake.
I felt the ground drop beneath me.
Emily didn’t hesitate.
Not even for a second.
She glanced at the stopwatch, wrote something down quickly, then turned him gently onto his side with practiced precision. She reached for a small bottle and carefully gave him a few drops.
My blood ran cold.
What was she giving him?
I started flipping through the camera feeds, my hands shaking as I searched for context.