Keep it cool.
I stepped forward as she grabbed a Sharpie and scribbled hurried information onto a tag, then thrust a clip-on light and a hard-shelled cooler into my hands—white and insulated, empty. “Basement, blood bank. Show them this tag and they’ll load it. Go.”
I bolted.
The stairwell had turned into a chimney, the air dry and thick with trapped daytime heat. Sixth floor, all the way down to the basement. I clattered down in the shaky glow of my light, one hand on the railing, feet barely touching half the steps.Newborn crashing.Third floor, second, down, down, down. Somewhereabove me, another person was pounding upward, their flashlight bobbing.
Basement landing—the concrete walls echoed. I pulled a left and found the blood bank doors propped open with a toolbox, two techs working in the dim glow of a camping lantern, sweat gleaming on their foreheads.
“Baby Sloan.” I slapped the cooler on the counter. “A-negative, PICU—stat!”
They jumped into action. One cracked the big refrigerator, the other noted unit numbers. Seconds stretched like minutes, urgency pulling on me. I shifted from foot to foot until one of the guys handed me two palm-sized bags—tiny, each of them just enough to fill a shot glass. Jesus.
“Double-checked,” he said. “A-neg, irradiated. Sign here.”
I scrawled my initials and thanked them. Then I latched the cooler, slung it over my shoulder, turned for the stairs.
Up now. Basement to first, to second. By the third, the scrubs top stuck to my spine, and an emergency alert lit up my phone to warn of a partial power outage in Manhattan, avoid elevators. Yeah, on it.
Fourth landing.Faster, legs wobbling a little. Good thing I’d skipped the morning run to grasp for forty additional minutes of sleep. I passed another resident carrying a case of portable monitors. We exchanged a tight nod, no words.
Fifth. Sixth—my ward, the door propped open. Smith, passing by in the hallway, caught a glimpse of me and cheered like it was a race. “Keep going, Hayes!”
Seven. My lungs burned more than my legs, the air scraping hot and dry against my throat. Should’ve taken water. I counted the last twelve steps to eight out loud, each one a breath and a curse.
Eight North glowed with battery lights. I flashed my badge at the security volunteer who saw the cooler and waved methrough. Inside, the unit was bathed in strange twilight—monitors on backup power, ventilators beeping. A nurse spotted me and pointed the way, her face drawn tight with worry.Please don’t let me be too late.
The baby’s bed was half-ringed by flashlights clamped to IV poles. God. Baby Sloan wore tiny pink hospital socks, not sure why my attention immediately snagged on that. Deep breath. I looked up. And—oh.Jesse. He stood over the warmer, one gloved hand bracing the baby’s abdomen, blood staining his surgical gown. Sweat darkened his hairline.
Something in my chest snapped open.
I slid in next to him, the cooler strap cutting into my shoulder. “A-negative,” I managed, voice thin, breath coming harsh and fast. “For Sloan.”
Jesse inhaled, his eyes on the baby. “Label?”
I angled my clip light so he could confirm the match, and he nodded once, quick and sharp.
“Good. Get it out.”
I cracked the cooler seal, fingers fumbling just slightly from the adrenaline. He yanked out a blood bag the color of dark cherries, checked the label against the baby’s wristband, and passed it on to a nurse. “Start slow to confirm the line,” he told her—calm and steady if not for the way I’d seen his hand shake for half a second. “Then wide open. Watch her pressure.”
He turned the tiniest fraction toward me, flashlights catching the green of his eyes. They were too bright, pupils blown wide. “Good timing, Dr. Hayes,” he said, rushed and sincere.
And…fuck. Something about his tone, the weight he’d packed into the words—it felt like that stair run all over again, barreling down six floors and praying that I wouldn’t trip.
I swallowed hard, lungs still on fire, and straightened. “What can I do?”
That’s when the ventilator beeped a warning.
TEN
JESSE
The PICU bay glowed red-gold, like the inside of a half-remembered dream—claustrophobic tunnel focus dissolving everything that wasn’t here and now. Baby Sloan lay under the radiant warmer, arms barely thicker than my thumb, chest rising in shallow two-second puffs driven by the ventilator. Its monitor blinked a steady stream of amber information.
Come on, little girl.
My left palm pressed across the fresh incision, gauze squelching warm between glove and skin, my right hand steadying the ventilator circuit so it wouldn’t tug the tube loose. Sweat burned in my eyes, mask shoved under my chin to keep it from soaking through.Hold the pressure. Think.What’s next?
