Before he could take a step, Sarge stood.

After nine hours cramped in that chair, he rose in one fluid motion, towering over the doctor and the administrator.

With agonizing gentleness he took the baby back from Evans’s hands, pulled her tight against his chest, and instantly resumed the four-second breathing.

“Oxygen, now!” he barked at me, a commander taking the field. “Get the nasal cannula. Don’t just stand there — move!”

My training kicked in. I sprinted to the wall, grabbed the tubing, and hooked the tiny prongs beneath her nose while she lay against his chest.

“Stimulate her back,” Sarge ordered Evans, ignoring Sterling, who was sputtering. “Rub her spine. Harder, Doc. Keep her here.”