Instead I pulled a stool over near enough to help if he faltered, and I let him stay.

It was against the rules. It was against several rules. But she was sleeping — actually sleeping, for the first time in the eighteen hours I had known her — and every number on her monitor was where I had been praying all day to see it, and I had the strong and growing sense that something was happening in that chair that was bigger than the volunteer time limits, and that it was not only the baby it was saving. So the hours went by.

Four. Then six. Then eight. The night shift settled around us. Other babies woke and were tended and slept again.

Other alarms rose and were quieted. And in the corner, unmoving, the enormous scarred man went on breathing his slow square, and the abandoned child slept against his heart, and I found reasons to stay close.

By hour nine his face had gone gray with the effort of holding still. His back was rigid, his jaw set.

I brought him a paper cup of water and, because he would not free a hand or shift his arms, I held it to his lips so he could drink without moving her.