Nolan moved around the desk with the careful, slow deliberate-ness of a man trying not to startle a wounded bird, because he knew that for a child this frightened, any sudden movement feels like a storm.
When he reached for the bag, he felt the dampness of it, the rust-colored stains soaking through the paper in jagged circles that told a story his mind was already trying to refuse. He opened the towels inside—old, frayed things that had lost their softness—and found a newborn whose skin was the color of a winter sky, his breaths so shallow they were more like a suggestion than a reality.
Nolan’s voice didn’t sound like his own when he shouted for an ambulance, because in that moment, the professional distance he had spent years building vanished, replaced by the desperate warmth of his own chest as he tucked the infant against his uniform, trying to lend the child his own life through the fabric.
“You did so good,” Nolan told her, his throat tight as the girl gripped his sleeve, her fingers digging in like anchors. “You brought him to the right place, Maisie. I promise, you did everything right.”