Chapter 8 - THE TENSION ON THE MARBLE TABLE
The room held its collective breath as Emily positioned the cold pack directly against the side of Noah’s neck. The contrast between the cold pack and the infant's overheated skin caused a faint wisp of condensation to rise into the air.
For ten agonizing seconds, nothing happened. The flatline alarm continued its relentless, single-note scream.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
"His oxygen saturation is dropping past critical baseline," the assistant paramedic whispered nervously, pointing a trembling finger at the digital display. "Brain tissue hypoxia in twenty seconds if we don't force air into his lungs..."
"Hold your position!" Michael commanded, grabbing the assistant by the collar of his tactical vest and shoving him back two steps. "Nobody touches her!"
Emily’s hands were stone-still. She watched the infant's neck muscles intently.
Underneath the extreme cold of the compress, the inflamed, swollen tissue along Noah’s throat began to react. The micro-vascular engorgement slowly began to recede, the severe nerve spasm dampening under the localized hypothermia.
With a motion so fast and precise it looked like surgical sleight of hand, Emily slid the micro-forceps beneath the edge of the blue blanket.
CLICK.
A tiny, mechanical snap echoed from beneath the fabric as the steel tips locked onto the foreign brass object.
Emily pulled her hand back smoothly.
Held tightly between the jaws of the surgical forceps was a tiny, bent, brass-colored metal pin no larger than an apple seed, coated in a thin layer of clear tissue fluid. She dropped it onto the stainless-steel tray beside the changing table, where it landed with a sharp, metallic CLINK.
Instantly, a sharp, gasping sound erupted from the infant's throat.
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IN-HALE.
Noah’s tiny chest surged upward, expanding violently as air rushed past the cleared vocal cords into his starved lungs.
