“A-negative,” someone said.Finn. Voice breathless and ragged, slotting into place right next to me. A hard-shelled cooler thunked onto the side table. “For Sloan.”
Relief gripped me like a bout of vertigo, a punch that nearly buckled my knees. Okay. I coulddothis—step up as the acting attending because Novak was trapped in a dead elevator. Baby Sloan’s odds had dropped the second the lights went out, but now I had blood, and I had Finn.
“Label?” I asked.
He showed me the label, and yes, good. I asked him to get it out, double-checked, and handed the tiny bag to Nurse Choi. She spiked the line.
Ruby-red drops.Life.
When the first crimson trickle reached its destination, I took what felt like my first breath in hours. Dim light bounced off stainless-steel tools and turned every cable into a shadowed snare. It was just four of us here: Choi handling meds, a resident fresh to neonatal care with his eyes wide enough to count the vessels, me—and now Finn, a pair of hands I trusted. Thank God.
He was still panting, his chest rising with each harsh breath, attention on the infant. “What can I do?”
The ventilator chimed like an answer, needle-point shrill. What—? Fuck. Something was off, oxygen levels flashing a warning. Problem with the medical air? Some hose pulled loose and leaking? It was rare, really fucking rare, but I’d seen it happen.Now, though? Murphy’s fucking Law.
Okay—plan. The machine might steady, sure. But if it didn’t, we might have to breathe for her by hand.
“Mask,” I told Finn. “Gown, gel up. Be ready for manual ventilation.”
He sucked in a breath, then swallowed his shock and nodded.
“You,” I told the wide-eyed resident, hovering nearby. “Replacement ventilator. Find one.”
“Got it.” He peeled off, shoes squeaking on the laminate floor as if he’d been waiting for a chance to be useful.
Okay, good. Sorted. I checked the wound, keeping half an eye on Finn as he shouldered into a disposable gown, sanitized his hands, and snapped on a fresh pair of gloves. His fingers trembled just faintly—not fear, I didn’t think so. Probably adrenaline. He must have sprinted up eight flights of stairs to get here as fast as he could.
I fought a swell of breathless warmth. Not the place.
Instead, I ran the numbers in my head. Baby Sloan, underweight at roughly 4.3 lbs.—a very small watermelon, if that. Total blood volume maybe 250 milliliters, less than a can of Coke. She’d lost, what, maybe a quarter of that? Finn’s two bags had bought us precious time. We might need more in a pinch, but that was a problem for later.
“All right, here’s the plan.” I glanced over as Finn stepped up next to me, almost said his name and caught myself at the last second. “Dr. Hayes—neo bag-valve mask from the airway cart, connect it. Bring face pieces in two sizes.”
He darted away, clip light dancing.
“Drip running,” Choi murmured. “Steady.”
“Good.” I eased the soaked gauze, fresh blood still seeping. Could be a slipped ligature. Either way, blood first. We’d fix her when the power came back. Wewould.
Finn returned with arms full of equipment, breathing steadier now. The ventilator kept flashing its warning, ever more urgent, and I met Finn’s eyes—all focused blue, trusting my lead. Something spiked under my sternum. I shoved it aside.
“Choi?” I slid her a glance. “You’ve got hands? Good—take over compression.”
She nodded, brisk and serious, leaning in to take my place. I watched for a moment, then shifted away to take the doll-sized face piece from Finn. “You’ve done this before?”
Hesitation pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Only in sim labs. Not…this.”
Of course.
“Support the jaw, seal the mask.” I demonstrated the C-shaped grip on the face piece. “Squeeze slow. Watch her chest, not the bag.”
He exhaled. “Okay.”
I gripped his shoulder and let my voice dip low. “You’ve got this.”
He raised his head and held my gaze. “Okay.” Stronger now, more confident. Good.
“When I say go, we switch to mechanical until a replacement arrives.” A beat too late, I dropped my hand and nodded at the ventilator, still hissing away. Weaker now? The baby’s chest still rose, fell, rose again, but—no. I trusted a tipsy med schooler’s math more than I trusted this vent.
