Broken.
“What sound?” I asked.
His jaw tightened.
“The sound of someone fighting alone.”
The room went quiet again.
I had worked in the NICU for eleven years.
I had seen hundreds of parents cry beside incubators.
I had seen mothers refuse to leave their babies.
I had seen fathers break down when doctors explained survival percentages.
But I had never seen a grown man look at a premature infant like he was seeing something from his own past.
Arthur swallowed hard.
“I heard that same cry before.”
I didn’t ask.
Something in his face told me I shouldn’t.
But then he continued.
“Not from a baby.”
His eyes lowered.
“From my little brother.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
The nurses around me exchanged glances.
Because Arthur Vance was a mystery to everyone in that hospital.
We knew the official information.
Decorated veteran.
Multiple deployments.
Severe injuries.
Volunteer approval.
But we didn’t know the person behind the scars.
Not until that moment.
Arthur slowly adjusted his position.
The baby made a tiny sound.
A weak, fragile whimper.
And every muscle in his body tensed.
For a second, I thought he was going to pull away.
Instead, he leaned closer.
“You don’t have to fight alone anymore.”
The baby opened her tiny eyes.
Just slightly.
And then something happened that I still struggle to explain.
Her fingers moved.
Barely.
