“Don’t,” he muttered. “Please. Don’t.”
But they didn’t stop until the wheels touched the runway.
The plane landed hard. Within a minute of the doors opening, the aisle filled with people. Two paramedics. A neonatal nurse with an incubator on wheels. And behind them, two airport police officers in dark uniforms.
The neonatal nurse took my daughter gently from my chest. I panicked and reached for her, and the nurse said, “She’s perfect, Mom. She’s just early. We’re going to keep her warm and take you both to Bayview Memorial.”
The police officers stopped in front of Joaquin.
“Sir. Joaquin Salas? We need you to come with us to answer some questions.”
He stood up slowly. His knees cracked.
“Officers, wait,” I said from the stretcher. “Please. He didn’t do anything wrong. He saved my daughter’s life.”
“Ma’am, nobody’s under arrest. We just need a statement. A complaint’s been filed.” One officer glanced toward row twelve. “And the airline’s required to report an unlicensed provider.”
