“Please.”
The word hit harder than anything else.
My throat closed.
Slowly—
I forced my arms to loosen.
They took Elena first.
Carefully. Gently.
Like she was made of something that could break just by being looked at wrong.
They laid her onto the stretcher and immediately began attaching equipment.
Monitors. Leads.
Oxygen mask.
Her skin—still frozen—barely reacted to the warmth of the mask pressed over her lips.
“Sinus rhythm?” one of the doctors asked.
“Barely. Hypothermic,”another replied. “Prepare for resuscitation.”
They moved with speed now—precise, practiced.
IV lines inserted.
Warm fluids pushed.
A defibrillator wheeled into place.
“Pads ready.”
“Charging.”
Inside the second ambulance—
The baby.
My son.
So small. So still.
A nurse lifted him into a portable incubator, her movements careful, almost reverent.
Then she immediately placed two fingers on his chest.
And began compressions.
One.
Two.
Three.
