“Doctor, the numbers are dropping too fast. The girl’s heart is almost stopping,” Clare said. Her hands were steady, but she held her breath between words like someone walking across ice.

Dr. Margaret Clark didn’t answer at first. She watched the line; it watched her back. Eighteen years in intensive care had taught her the choreography of crisis: order, move, verify, repeat. She had danced it a thousand times. Tonight, her feet felt glued to the floor.

“More medication,” she said at last. “Prepare defibrillation. Three, two, one—go.”

The electricity crackled through the quiet and then was swallowed by it. Oxygen numbers fell. The ventilator delivered its careful breaths, precise and impersonal. Nothing changed.