Page 7 of Christmas On Call
“Already set.” Max’s eyes darted to the parents, then back to Asha. “Mom’s asking if she can hold him. She says it calms the baby.”
“It also tanks his sats,” Asha said, though her tone was softer than she intended. “Let’s stabilize a few more hours, then we can try again.”
Max nodded, no argument, but there was something in her mouth—a hint of resistance or disappointment—that made Asha want to explain herself, even as she quashed the urge.
The resident hovered, awaiting further instruction. Asha fixed him with a look. “Check the lines every hour. Let me know at once if he spikes a temp.”
“Of course, Doctor,” he said, eager to please. He sidled off to the next pod, leaving the two women in a strange, humming silence.
Max stood close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, the glow from the isolette painting both their faces a sickly yellow. “You ever go home on holidays?” she asked, voice pitched low, somewhere between curiosity and accusation.
Asha bristled, surprised. “Why does it matter?”
Max didn’t retreat. “Just wondering if you ever take the night off. You know—traditions, family, all that.”
Asha stared at her, flat and direct. “The only tradition I care about is keeping these babies alive.”
For a moment, Max’s eyes widened. Then she laughed—quietly, with a twist of sadness in it. “Of course. Should’ve known.”
She turned, moving to adjust a monitor, and for the first time since the start of shift, Asha noticed how tired Max looked: the blue smudges under her eyes, the knuckle swollen from an old, half-healed cut. She wanted to say something—an apology, maybe, or commiseration—but the words felt brittle on her tongue. She couldn’t make the words come out.
Max finished her task, then turned back, all business again. “If you need me, I’m on med cart.”
Asha nodded. “Thank you, Nurse Benson.”
Max hesitated. “Merry Christmas, Doctor Patel.”
The words were so unexpected, so gentle, that Asha almost flinched. She watched Max walk away, shoulders set, head high, every motion a study in stubborn care.
For a long minute, Asha stood in the half-dark, unable to move, replaying the brief exchange with forensic detail. The data, the rules, the discipline—these were safe, immutable. What she didn’t understand was why it suddenly mattered so much, the look on Max’s face, the way her voice softened around the wordhome.
She turned back to the isolette. The baby slept, skin the color of a promise, machines breathing for him in the hush.
Asha placed her palm flat on the side of the incubator. For warmth or for reassurance, she wasn’t sure.
But it lingered there, even after the plastic began to fog.
The first alarm came at 2:04 a.m., slicing the soft hum of the unit with a shrill, clinical certainty that made even the night-shift janitor look up from his slow pilgrimage down the hall. Asha was four pods away, reviewing a chart with the new resident, when the red light flicked on above Baby Rodriguez’s isolette.
She was moving before the data could fully register, her shoes nearly silent, but the clip of her steps enough to signal everyone within earshot: something was wrong, and it was very wrong right now.
Inside the pod, the baby’s chest had gone slack, lips already purple. The parents, jolted awake by the noise, clung to each other, eyes wide and white against the blue shadows.
Asha snapped on gloves and called over her shoulder, “Suction and bag, now.”
The resident fumbled for the airway kit, hands shaking so badly the suction canister nearly clattered to the floor. But Max was already there, materializing from the dark with the ambubag in one hand and the suction catheter in the other, both prepped and ready. She handed Asha the bag and attached the mask in a single, practiced gesture.
“Pulse ox?” Asha barked, voice sharp.
“Sixty-eight and dropping,” Max said, eyes never leaving the baby’s face. “He’s not moving air.”
“Switch me.” Asha pressed two fingers to the baby’s sternum and counted off compressions, the heel of her hand no bigger than a coin. She glanced at the clock. “We’re at twenty seconds. Let’s go.”
Max pivoted, clearing the airway with a sweep of the suction, then repositioned the mask for a better seal. “Clear,” she said, and Asha hit the bag again, willing the baby’s chest to rise.
The monitors screamed, insistent. The father moaned, a sound of such raw, animal terror it threatened to crowd out everything else.
“Epi ready,” Max announced, already tearing the packaging with her teeth. She held out the microdose syringe. Asha hesitated, recalculated the risks, then nodded. “Give it.”
