She had no mother to soothe her, no drug strong enough to quiet the fire in her blood — but she had this. A biological anchor.

Her thrashing slowed. Her mottled skin flushed a healthy pink. By twenty minutes her hands uncurled from their fists.

By thirty, her breathing hitched and then synced with the rise and fall of the scarred soldier holding her, and she dropped into a deep, silent sleep.

The silence in the unit was staggering. The alarms had cleared. The red lights had gone back to a steady, peaceful green.

His own tremor had vanished. The sweat was drying on his forehead, his eyes closed, his face bent over the blue swaddle. He’d used his own survival mechanism to drag her back from the edge.

“You can put her back now,” I whispered, not wanting to break the spell. “Your arms must be exhausted. You did incredible work.”