Chapter 4 — Nora

The twelfth hour approached like a weight pressing down on the room.

The NICU had settled into graveyard quiet, the lights dimmed to a soft twilight.

By hour eleven, Sarge was in real physical agony — the joints of his hands swollen and locked, his breath hitching now and then, the endurance of staying perfectly still taking its toll on a body already battered by hard miles.

I walked over with a warm, damp cloth. I didn’t ask; I just wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck.

He didn’t open his eyes, but he leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second — a silent thank-you.

As I drew my hand back, my eyes fell on the tarnished dog tag resting on his chest, right above where Baby Girl Reed’s tiny head was tucked.