The Glass Incubator
The morning sun rose over Mercy Central, casting long, golden beams across the neonatal intensive care unit.
The room was filled with the rhythmic whirring of ventilators and the soft, musical chimes of heart monitors. In the center of the third bay stood an incubator no larger than a shoebox. Inside, resting on a sterile gel pad, lay baby Leo.
He had tiny, translucent fingers, translucent eyelids, and a cluster of monitoring leads taped gently to his chest. A miniature oxygen tube rested under his nose.
David stood outside the glass viewing window, his hand pressed against the pane. Marcus stood a few paces back, his arms crossed, watching the child with an expression of quiet reverence.
"He looks like our mother," Marcus whispered. "She had that same stubborn chin."
"He shouldn't even be here yet," David said, his voice thick with emotion. "He had twelve more weeks."
Dr. Linwood walked over, carrying a medical chart. "His lung development is fragile, but his arterial blood gases are stabilizing. He’s absorbing oxygen on his own now."
"And Emma?" David asked immediately.
"Her intracranial pressure has dropped to normal levels," Dr. Linwood said, offering a faint, encouraging smile. "We’re reducing her sedative drip. She could regain consciousness within the hour."
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David let out a breath he felt he had been holding for an eternity. "Can we see her?"
"Only family," Dr. Linwood said, nodding toward the ICU corridor. "Go on."
