The room fell into a tense, suffocating silence. The flatline on the monitor continued its agonizing, continuous beep. Every second mattered. The doctors looked at each other, their professional pride warring with the stark reality that they had already failed.
Leo didn’t wait for permission. He stepped up to the sterile enclosure. “He needs to be turned over, but not just tilted. You have to relieve the vacuum. If you just pull, it will tear the lining.” He looked at the chief physician. “Do you have a small, flexible catheter? A hollow tube?”
The physician, swept up in the boy’s strange, calm authority, nodded mechanically and reached for a sterile tray. He handed Leo a thin, flexible plastic tube.
“I can’t touch him, I’m dirty,” Leo said, stepping back slightly to maintain the boundary. “You do it, sir. Go in from the side of the tongue, slide it right against the wall of the throat until you feel the edge of the rubber. Don’t push down. Just break the seal.”
The chief physician looked at Richard, who nodded fiercely. With trembling hands, the doctor guided the thin tube into the infant’s mouth. The seconds stretched like hours. The monitor kept up its grim, unchanging drone. For a moment, nothing happened. The doctor adjusted the angle, his brow furrowing as he felt a slight resistance.
