I stood there, syringe in hand, stunned.

For the first five minutes the baby fought him, her tiny fists battering his chest, her cries echoing off the walls.

But Sarge didn’t flinch. He didn’t rock her or shush her or bounce her. He just sat like a mountain, his breath pulling in and pushing out in that relentless four-second cadence.

Inhale, hold, exhale, hold.

Around ten minutes, the room changed. I looked up at the monitor. Baby Girl Reed’s racing heartbeat — pinging between 180 and 190 — began to fall. One-seventy-five. One-sixty. One-fifty.

I stepped closer, mesmerized. Pressed flat against his chest, her frantic little nervous system was feeling the deep boom of his heart and the great rhythmic swell of his lungs.