“Mr. Ransom, step back,” I said, moving toward the incubator. “She’s too overstimulated. I need to give her a dose of phenobarbital.”

He didn’t move. He was locked in place, his chest heaving under the gown, his eyes fixed on the thrashing infant but seeing something else.

The monitors sounded too much like incoming mortar sirens. The cries sounded too much like casualties.

“Sarge,” I said, sharper, reaching for his arm.

“No,” he rasped, his eyes snapping back to the present. “No, I’ve got her. I’ve got her.”

Slowly, fighting the tremor in his own limbs, he slid one huge hand under her head and the other under her hips, and lifted her.