Precise.
Steady.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Stay with me…”
Nothing.
The room held its breath.
The mothers watched from the shadows with terrified eyes.
Olivia tried again.
And again.
I knew that tone in her voice.
I’d heard it in field hospitals, on battlefields, beside too many bodies that never got back up.
“Olivia,” I said quietly.
“Don’t.”
The word cracked out of her sharp enough to cut.
She leaned closer over the boy.
“Come on,” she begged softly. “Please…”
Seconds dragged.
Too long.
Then suddenly the kid jerked beneath her hands.
A ragged breath ripped into his lungs.
Another.
The room exhaled all at once.
One of the mothers started crying quietly in relief.
Olivia stayed frozen over him.
Head bowed.
Hands still pressed against his chest.
“He’s back,” she whispered.
Her shoulders sagged like someone had cut the strings holding her upright.
Then her hands started shaking.
Small at first.
Barely noticeable.
