Nothing worked.She was still crying, her small body twitching in obvious discomfort.
Arthur looked toward the sound.
He clenched his jaw.
“Is she the one who needs someone to sit with her?”
I glanced at the volunteer badge pinned to his gown.
All the background checks had been completed.
He had passed all the psychological evaluations.
He was officially qualified for our infant comfort program.
Still, my gaze drifted to his hands.
They were scarred, huge, and trembling from permanent nerve damage.
For a brief moment, I wondered if hands that had survived war could safely hold a baby who weighed barely a pound.
Then I stepped aside.
Arthur washed his hands carefully, the trembling water splashing in the sink. Slowly, with incredible concentration, he reached into the incubator.
The instant his fingers touched the blanket, the baby let out a heart-wrenching cry that stopped everyone in the room.
Arthur froze.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
The monitors blared loud alarms.
For a moment, it was as if he’d been transported back to a battlefield. The sounds around him were no longer those of a hospital; they were echoes of war.
“Mr. Vance, stand back,” I yelled, reaching out to him.
He swallowed hard.
“No,” he whispered, forcing himself back to the present. “
I’ve got it.”
Then the battle-hardened veteran did something no one in that NICU could have ever expected…
Basketball battle
A six-foot-four combat veteran, scarred by burns and with trembling hands, quietly walked into our NICU. At first glance, he seemed completely out of
