She looked impossibly small against him — a fragile sparrow in the hands of a stone giant.

Step by careful step he backed up and sank into the vinyl rocking chair beside the machines.

The baby screamed harder, her back arching in a rigid bow.

Sarge closed his eyes. His jaw locked. He was fighting off a massive panic attack — and then he began a technique I’d later learn was called tactical box breathing, used by Special Forces to steady the nervous system under fire.

Inhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.

He did it out loud. A deep rush of air through the nose, a slow powerful release through the mouth, his chest rising and falling in enormous, deliberate swells.