Chapter 3 - The Race Against Time
The heavy door of the Range Rover slammed shut, instantly cutting off the howling mountain wind. The vehicle's engine was still warm, the climate control blowing steady, comforting heat into the cabin. Leo leaped into the front passenger seat, turning around immediately to rest his chin on the back headrest, his brown eyes locked onto the small bundle in Graham’s arms.
Graham laid the baby flat on the leather back seat. He didn't have time to drive to the hospital—it was fifteen miles away down a twisting, icy highway. The child had minutes, perhaps seconds, before irreversible brain damage set in from lack of oxygen.
"Come on, little guy. Stay with me," Graham muttered, his hands trembling violently despite his attempt at cold efficiency. He remembered the basic infant CPR classes he and Caroline had taken three years ago. The classes he had thought were a useless formality for a life that was supposed to be perfect.
He placed two fingers in the center of the baby’s tiny chest, right below the nipple line.
One, two, three, four, five.
He tilted the baby's head back slightly, covered the tiny nose and mouth with his own mouth, and breathed two gentle puffs of air into the small lungs. The tiny chest rose, then collapsed again, limp.
"Please," the little girl wept from the corner of the seat, clutching her arms around herself. Her small body shook violently with deep, traumatic sobs. "Please don't let Timmy die. Mommy said he'd get better, but he didn't... please!"
"I won't," Graham ground out through his teeth. "I won't let him die."
He repeated the cycle. Compressions. Two puffs of air.
One, two, three, four, five.
Nothing.
One, two, three, four, five.
Graham’s world narrowed down to the tiny, cold body beneath his hands. The ghosts of his past—the sterile hospital corridor, the cold hands of his lost wife, the empty nursery locked away in his hilltop mansion—screamed in his ears. He had failed to save Caroline. He had been helpless while everything he loved slipped through his fingers. He refused to sit in the dark again.
"Breathe!" Graham demanded, his voice cracking with an agonizing blend of authority and desperate prayer. "Breathe, damn it!"
He delivered another gentle puff of air.
Suddenly, a harsh, liquid cough rattled inside the infant's chest.
The baby shuddered violently. A thick plug of mucus and fluid spilled from his tiny mouth. Timmy’s little fists clenched, his arms flailed wildly against the leather seat, and then—a sharp, piercing, beautiful scream tore from his throat.
The sound echoed inside the SUV. It was loud, panicked, and full of life.
The little girl gasped, dropping to her knees on the floorboard and burying her face in the leather seat next to her brother. "Timmy! Timmy!"
Graham collapsed back against the frame of the door, his lungs expanding as if he, too, had just been brought back from the dead. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and sudden, burning his cold skin. He took a deep, trembling breath, wiping the sweat and ice from his forehead.
"He's breathing," Graham breathed out, his voice barely a raspy whisper. "He's breathing."
He quickly picked up the screaming infant, wrapping him tightly in the fleece blanket, and pulled him close to his chest to share his body heat. He reached over with his free arm and pulled the little girl up onto the seat beside him, wrapping a heavy wool throw blanket from the back of the SUV around her frail shoulders.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" Graham asked gently, his heart still hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"L-Lily," she sobbed, shivering uncontrollably as the warmth of the car began to thaw her frozen limbs. "I'm Lily. And this is Timmy."
"Okay, Lily. My name is Graham," he said, turning on the ignition and slamming the car into drive. He punched a button on his dashboard, activating the hands-free voice control. "Call Dr. Evans, emergency direct line."
The system dialed immediately. Within two rings, a calm, authoritative voice filled the car speakers. "Graham? It's early. Is everything alright?"
"David, I have an infant emergency," Graham said rapidly, his eyes fixed on the icy road as he accelerated away from Main Street. "A six-month-old child. High fever, respiratory distress, just went into full arrest. I managed to clear his airway and perform CPR. He's conscious and crying, but his breath sounds extremely wet and his temperature is dangerously high."
"Where are you?" Dr. Evans's voice stripped away all casual tone, instantly alert.
"Passing Fifth Street. I'm three minutes from your clinic."
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"I'll have the crash cart ready at the side entrance. Drive fast, Graham, but don't wreck."
Graham slammed his foot on the accelerator. The Range Rover's heavy tires griped the frozen pavement as they roared toward the medical clinic, leaving the cold, indifferent streets behind.
